


To Watch The Stoic Squirm

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Actual?? Plot??? What???, Canon Compliant, Character Development, Enemies to Lovers, Everyone Is Gay, F/F, F/M, Human Revolution Era, M/M, Or at least is a healthy bisexual, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-26 13:06:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: Love cannot save them, but it can certainly ruin them.________In which Azriel and Morrigan are sent to be the liaison for the human rebels in the Dawn Court to bring about change, but instead find themselves changing. As Thesan struggles to bring his father into alliance with the rebels, tension between the courts mounts, and betrayal faces them all left front and center.All that seems possible is further loss.So then why can neither bring themself to leave?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ABookAndACoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ABookAndACoffee/gifts).



> A word for the warning: this is not a tale of the Mor and Az we know from canon, but of the youths they once were and once left behind.

**Mor**

 

They winnow into the Dawn hillsides together, Morrigan’s hand resting protectively upon Azriel’s shoulder. Leaving behind the omnipresent inky darkness of the Hewn City, both reel back and wince as they arrive to, rather appropriately, a breaking dawn.

Misty light, still cold but growing, floods across the irrigated hillsides, reflecting off of the flooded water and turning the land into a realm of mirrors. Rippling in the soft wind, the still waters glint and sparkle. Yet the hillsides are perfectly silent, despite the people already gathered there, working the crops. Never has Mor, who grew up in eternal night, seen such a world of agriculture. The crisp, moist air combined with the vast, somewhat engulfing view leaves her speechless.

Beside her, her companion remains as silent as ever. Whether he is impressed or not, no one but the most skilled daemati could tell, his face less expressive than a slab of marble. His only response is to shrug out of her touch the moment they land, and step away from her. Again, his expression betrays no signs for the cause, but it does not matter; She’s used to it.

“The palace is down in the valley,” she says, more to herself than to him. “But I believe the fae camp is stationed up that hill?” This time, it is a question, and he is not so cold as to withhold a short nod from her. She grins, thrilled to have finally cracked him. “Mother, I can’t believe even with the war being what it is that they can’t all just live _together_.” Of course, she does not mention how hesitant she is to actually join the humans. It is only now that she has been given her first true assignment that she must work with them and her stomach feels like a young Illyrian learning to fly, to say the least.

Though she still finds physical contact unpleasant, she forces herself to give him a brisk hug. He does not move, a statue beneath her awkward limbs. “Look after yourself,” she mumbles, pulling back as fast as she can without quickening her breathing. Perhaps someday she shall not feel so uneasy around people, especially around _him_ , and yet with the flat look he gives her, she cannot imagine that day ever coming. “If you ever need me, you’re to come and get me right away. We’ve got to look out for each other here.”

“You have a mission to complete,” he reminds her, and though his words are stern, she thinks she can see some kind of warmth in his face. Or perhaps that is just the rising sun. “And mine is to protect you.” He gives her a once over to check she is prepared, and then turns to take the opposite pathway. “You shall not hear from me unless you need me.” She is his superior, so he does not oppose her order outright, but the intent is still there. Yet she does not feel able to argue with him. Anyone else, she’d reprimand them in a moment, but with him it is different.

Will she ever be able to look at him without remembering their first meeting?

Delaying the inevitable, she watches him trudge off up the hillside, an aberration of shadow amongst the soft sunshine and glittering water. No longer oppressed by the memories and unsaid words between them, she utilises her isolation to properly survey her surroundings.

The rice fields are human lands, and though once ruled by fae, they have always been thus. Always, humanity has worked this land, toiled and irrigated and sown and harvested it. She would have thought that what with the revolution and the war on, and Dawn being one of the forerunners of change, that the human slavery and labor force would be gone. Yet as she studies the fields, she notes that all those up in this early hour, tending the crops, are human. There is not a single fae among them.

Somewhat unsettled by this, she tries to shrug it off; It makes sense the humans would take over food production, given that it is they who know the workings best.

Suddenly, the silence feels less peaceful.

Checking again for Az, she can no longer spot the familiar silhouette of stubborn black, and sighs. She must go, for she is expected. Squaring her shoulders, she buries that toxic, wriggling insecurity deep within her bones, and dons an air more becoming for a Night Court Ambassador and noble. Whatever it is in the air that sets her teeth on edge, it is a sign that she can not show weakness.

And Mor has vowed never to be weak again.

 

* * *

 

 

The palace of the Dawn Court really does put the Night Court to shame.

Though Mor herself grew up in a life of luxury and in one of the finest architectural feats of her court, it does not compare to the sheer vastness of the royal complex Dawn has constructed. More humbling yet is the knowledge that this construction is centuries old, the old home of a once ruling bloodline. Before the war, it was merely used as the residence of out of favor diplomats.

Come the revolution, however, and the millions of human slaves surrounding it lay siege to it, exploiting the lack of loyalty of the passing nobles dwelling there. Within a month, they had taken over the complex and fortified it for their own needs. Now, a year later, they dominate the hillsides too. The only fae presence is the ally camp in the hillside. And now, Mor.

It is not exaggeration to deem the steps leading up to the palace a mountain, wider than most of the rice fields and all perfectly cut. Wings of further buildings span off to the side, but the royal court itself stands tall about the rest, the curling roof adorned with great carvings of all kinds of lesser fae writhing and running and playing and fighting. The idea that she is to call this place home is more than a little daunting.

Taking to the steps, she debates her entrance as she climbs. Should she be meek and mild-mannered? Kind and open? The idea sets a sour taste in her mouth - look where compliance got her before. No. She knows how she will present herself. She is a warrior now, and she will make sure even the humans know it.

Passing through the archways, she strides into the courtyard and up to the humongous carved wooden doors leading to the Court Hall. Just to remind them what it is fae bring to the table, she flicks her wrist, and the doors swing open without protest.

Just like that, it begins.

The chatter that preceded her dissipates; She can almost feel on her own skin the bristling of the humans gathered before her as they remember once more their enemy, as their instincts to despise rile back up into action. Yet they know she is coming, and stay put. However, the term ‘ally’ does little to soften their contemptuous gazes. The wolf has returned to the flock, and they are determined not to be prey again.

Too bad, she thinks. They’ll just have to learn for themselves what I really am.

Each step poised and pointed, she makes her way across the floor to the throne. The hall is gigantic, revealing just how deep this complex goes to match its width and height. behind each great pillar, yet more humans are gathered, clustered together. She expected whispering, gossip, rushed exclamations about how fearsome and powerful she appears. Yet nothing echoes against the walls save for her sharp footsteps.  

“I’ve come to meet with the queen,” she announces to the crowd, as she stops before the steps leading to an empty throne. Her voice is haughty to even her ears, and yet she does not change it. Better they think her arrogant than scared.

“And so,” a deeper, warmer voice responds, “you shall meet her.”

Emerging from a flanking doorway comes a woman both warrior and courtier, both austere and astounding. Swathed in a floor length dress composed of one long run of white fabric, tied at the waist, she is elegant and feminine. But she is also clad in sturdy spaulders strapped across her chest with leather, attached to a sash carrying a curved blade. Her attire speaks of Dawn, and Summer, and Day, though Mor cannot guess from which she hails by her appearance, nor her accent. Her skin is black as ink, her hair a mane of tight curls around her head, but golden, not white like Summer’s nobility.

What shocks Mor most, however, is not her weapons nor her regal attire, but her face. As the rumors foretold, she is not quite pretty, with strong, square features, but more than that, lines crease her skin and etch the corners of her eyes. Mor has never seen someone look so old.

Mentally, she reminds herself that she is the Queen’s senior, for gathered information indicate she is only in her forties, yet still, it is alien to her. All of her human handmaidens and dressers and tailors and stylists and waiters and jesters and musicians and poets had been discarded by the time they reached their thirties, sent off to work down in the kitchens or out in the fields. Her father and the rest of the court had never been able to tolerate humanity’s penchant for wearing their years on their skin.

Yet regarding the queen, Mor thinks it makes her look rather handsome. It gives her… character, yes, that is the term Mor is looking for. She holds her tongue as the queen ascends the steps, two finely dressed men in tow, and is seated. Framed in a halo of golden light by the ceiling tall window behind her, turning her golden curls into an illusion of flame, Mor suddenly understands how this woman went from just another slave, to the human’s elected queen. She does not look fae, but she does look like something from legend. Mor did not know humans could feel like this.

“I-” She begins, but a slight whip of a man at the base of the steps clears his throat.

“Is it not customary amongst fae to bow before royalty?” He asks in a nasal drawl, which she takes as grounds to detest him immediately.

Rage leaps to her tongue, along with a dozen arguments pointing out how the war isn’t won yet, and that there are not human queens, not really, but she swallows them back. Years of listening to her father threaten to burst forth, and she hates herself for it. It is true: She does not understand humans. She has been programmed by everything she has ever known to view them as slaves, but she has seen too what they suffer. She has felt it herself, in her own way. And now that she is trying to free herself, she knows she cannot just stop there.

So she swallows a lifetime of pride, and kneels. “Your majesty,” she says, and the anger fades. She does not feel weak, as she feared. It does not feel as it felt to bow before her father, Beron, all of the other men who did _that_ to her. But still, she is cautious.

“Morrigan,” The Queen says as way of greeting, inclining her head in a manner more graceful than most of the fae Mor knows. Has this woman really only been hailed as queen for a year? “It is an honour to have you here with us. Rhysand has told me what an asset you are to him.”

Still, Mor cannot place her accent, and fresh out of her home city’s cocoon, she struggles to make out every word. Ears burning in humiliation at her own ignorance, her own sheltered background, she forgets to be The Warrior and mumbles, “I hope I will prove an asset here, also.”

“You are the first fae to stay in our ‘Human Court’,” The Queen says with a smile, one that Mor does not associate with rulers and nobles. “That alone is an asset. Together, I hope we can prove our two races really can coexist in peace.” Her smile widens, and Mor finds she cannot look away. “Perhaps, we might even be friends.”

Rising from her seat, she descends alone and stops on the very last step. With one hand, she rests her palm atop Mor’s head - through her shaven hair, she can feel the warmth of her skin, the callouses on her fingers. “I, Queen Andromache of the Dawn Rebels, hereby appoint you Royal Advisor.” She reaches down and, in an oddly intimate gesture, cups her jaw to tilt her face up into the light. “Will you swear always to tell me the truth, and to seek it out whatever it may be?”

“I swear,” Mor says automatically, fixed rigid by golden eyes.

“Then you are Morrigan, Royal Advisor, and my personal truth seeker.” Her smile is brighter than any sun. “May we do great things together.”  


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the fucking OC-apocalypse up in here geez.

**Az**

Before he has even broken the back of the journey to the hilltop, Azriel hears the sound of fighting. Though he has only left him an hour ago, he finds himself missing Cassian. For however long he will be stationed here, he may never see that particular idiot, possibly for years. Though he may be a moron on the outside, he is at least the one person Azriel can really talk to. Now, he is faced with the possibility of nothing but the voices in his head for company.

And he is already sick of himself.

Shoving the memories of parting with Mor out of his skull, he breaks into a run, focusing on the ache of his muscles. The path steepens, his wings catching on tree branches. He goes faster. Only when he is sure he is close does he slow, composing himself into an unreadable enigma. He is here to watch over Mor, not give anything away to high fae bastards.

Cresting over the hilltop, the encampment comes into site. Tents litter the ground in unregulated patches, no organisation to it at all. A circular patch it kept clear for training it seems, for soldiers are gathered there with sticks and shouting. Only one man is decked in proper armor, one who is leaning against a tree stump and appears half asleep.

So Az’s information is correct; Hyperion still isn’t siding with the rebellion, whatever claims he might make. Had his son Thesan not run off to ally with the lesser fae rebels, Az suspects he would have sided with Hybern and Spring from the very beginning. Still, hearing that Dawn is the mighty ‘leader of change’ had made for nice stories around the campfire, especially back with the Illyrians. Everyone always wanted to believe that somewhere, out there, there was a better place, a better world.

Az learned young that no such place existed. You went from one hell to another in life, and that was that. Still, he cannot begrudge others their hope. If anything, he envies it.

“Lieutenant Azriel!” Someone yells, and Az awakes from his reverie to find that the sleeping man has vanished, only to reappear a moment later running towards him. He is every bit the young Dawn noble, with his olive skin spotless, his black hair long and soft, plaited behind him. His armor is equally unmarked; neither have seen a day of battle before. The enthusiastic smile he wears alone gives that away.

“So, so glad to have you here,” he says with genuine warmth, grabbing Az’s hands without asking and clasping them in his own. It takes every fibre of Azriel’s being not to snatch them back; He thinks he might be sick. All seven siphons on his leathers glow in warning as he has to force back a surge of disgust and hatred that intellectually, he knows this man - Cauldron, this _boy_ \- does not deserve.

After an appropriate amount of time has passed, he snips his head in a twitch of a nod and slides his hand free. He is quick to tuck them behind his back, not sure he can face another round of this person’s eagerness. Please let this war be over swiftly.

“It is such an honor,” the man continues, showing no signs of noticing anything peculiar. “I heard you trained under Captain Cassian, is it true?” Another nod. He already has a headache. “Oh cauldron, how _wonderful_. You must feel so lucky.” The look he gives him must be interpreted as a question, because the man continues, “Oh, I’ve only met him briefly. You know, when prince Rhysand came to aid us over with Thesan but-” He sighs. “He was so inspiring. It’s because of him that I decided to join the military.”

Az schools his expression into one that he hopes looks pleasant and interested, whilst making a mental note to scold Cassian for sleeping with everything that moves. _Especially_ young impressionable nobles. “Sergeant Major Graves, at your service. I know, awful omen of a name but we _are_ defying fate here. You can just call me Graves. Or Sergeant, of course. Or-” For once, Graves seems to realise he is rambling and cuts himself short. With a boyish grin, he sticks out his hand for a shaking. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Though already he can tell they are opposites in all conceivable ways, Azriel finds himself warming to the boy. At least he is not eyeing his wings like most high fae do, not treating him with patronising condescension. Thus, it almost manages to be comfortable as he shakes the offered hand.

“The prince sent word of your arrival. Said you weren’t very talkative.” He does not speak unkindly, though his laugh wobbles a tadge. “Which is fine, I mean, when you can do what you can do, who needs words I guess.” Stepping back, Graves rubs his arms and shifts his weight from foot to foot, all of which Azriel cannot stop himself from taking in and analysing. So that is his weakness; he is afraid of power. No wonder Rhysand stationed Az here; if the commanding officer is fearful of force, then a loose canon might actually come in handy.

Az smirks; What a strange way to feel useful.

“I’ll introduce you to the rest of command and then you can settle in- unless, of course, you’d rather do that first. Although everyone was rather looking forward to meeting the Illyrian who slew the entire Lington line, and they’d kill me if they knew I was hiding you from them. Not that-”

“Introduce me,” Azriel says. Though his voice, perfectly calculated and controlled is half the volume of the other’s, it silences him immediately.

“Of course, of course I should show you round first. They’ll be thrilled to meet you.”

He does not mean to be rude, but as Graves leads him towards the camp he finds himself tuning out of the stream of consciousness babble that seems to be a permanent feature of his company. Instead he remains fixated on what he is apparently known for. So he is viewed as a killer already. A hint of a crease etches its way across his brow, though he smooths it with a thumb as soon as he notices. He shall have to be on even better behavior if he is to be seen as normal here. And he knows well the price of being marked as different.

“I mean I know I’m the commanding officer, or at least I was until you came here, but I tend to train the new recruits and the previous non-fighters. It just makes sense. Cassian always said there’s no shame in being honest about your capabilities, and that includes your weaknesses. Have you read his book? Not- I mean, not the uh, the fiction one, the one with his essays on battle strategy and command. It’s-” And Az tunes back out.

There can not be more than a thousand fae stationed here, and from the looks of things, most of them are green as grass. Those armed with sticks are still practicing basic stance. As he assesses them, Cassian’s voice booming corrections inside his head, it becomes obvious how dearly they need Hyperion’s aid. Though he knows Thesan is popular amongst the nobility, having pampered princelings and scholars will not win a war fighting to up-heave the very foundation of the culture they live in.

“Thesan isn’t due to be stationed here until the he can bring the Peregryn into alliance. Problem is of course, they’re petrified that when we lose- sorry, if we lose, that they’ll end up as ill-treated as the humans. But I’m confident Thesan can persuade them.” Though he would not call himself an optimist, Azriel agrees. If anyone can convince their opposition to ally with them, it is Thesan, the boy-king who started this whole revolution.

Internally, he begins to construct his plans for when Thesan arrives; that seems the most logical tactic for bartering with Hyperion. Until then, he’ll take stock of the forces they currently possess and ensure Mor’s transition into the human court goes as smoothly as possible.

The idea of being stuck here for years is a lot easier to tolerate if he itemises it in a series of tasks. Everything shall be simple, straight-forward, and according to plan.

With an outwardly invisible jolt, he realises he has missed the roll call of half the officers’ names. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to converse with anyone else yet, for Graves merely points out their various stations and quarters. They have a weapons master, which is unexpected, and apparently the cook is a dismissed general from Hyperion’s army itself. Two privates manage the day to day run of scheduling, and a demoted Captain who sounds like a nightmare maintains law and order around the camp. They are all strangers to Az, and history indicates that they shall stay that way no matter how long he remains there.

“Last but not least, Private Liu. He’s uh… He’s new to the military, but not new to combat if you catch my meaning.” Az most certainly does, and more importantly, he marks the tone with which the man is described. Without even needing to see him, he makes a note to avoid private Liu like the plague. He hasn’t worked for decades to eradicate that tone from association with himself only to have it tainted by some blade for hire. “He’s in charge of training the more experienced soldiers. If you ever want someone to spar with, however, you’re more than welcome to come and ask any of us.” The unspoken insult solidified any doubts Az may have held.

So that was what this ‘army’ is composed of. Soft boys and monsters.

What that implies for the outcome of the war _should_ be what bother him, but something far pettier niggles at his security. He knows which of those two catagories he is best suited for, and all he wants is to leave it behind.

 _Dammit Rhysand_ , he thinks, _you must really hate me._

 

* * *

 

He had nothing to unpack, carrying everything he valued on his person and unwilling to risk storing it, thus the afternoon afforded him little distraction. Azriel merely sat on his bunk, infinitely grateful for a tent to himself, and waited. Or, when it really got to be too much, he paced. One thing was for certain, he was not going outside.

On the way to being shown his quarters, he had not been so lucky. Five people in only five hundred metres had waylaid him by the side and asked for tales of his feats. Not one of them had failed to mention the Lington family. And far, far too many of them had scrutinised him too closely, particularly his wings. For the one commanding officer they had met - the weaponmaster - he had clearly been none to pleased by the concept of receiving orders from a second class citizen. The whole point of their war was irrelevant. Just as with the other side, there were plenty people here just following orders.

To make matters worse, his siphons seem to be malfunctioning. No matter how fiercely he paces, shadows keep leaking from his skin. He tries everything - counting down from ten, mindful breathing, punching the floor - but nothing helps. Nausea and a migraine stalk him like wolves herding a wounded deer. Perhaps he is ill. Maybe he should just leave already.

“Lieutenant?” A young voice calls, and by a heavens-sent miracle the darkness swirling around the tent vanish with the raising of one of the flaps. Graves’ pretty face peers in. “It’s Officers Dinner come sundown. Would you care to join us?” Every instinct tells him to say no, but Az knows well where the boundary between privacy and rudeness lies. He consents with a nod, and tries not to feel too bitter about the pleased smile that lights up the younger’s face.   

Occupied with keeping the shadows in check, he does not hear whatever Graves is chattering about - Cassian, by the sound of it - nor does he notice the figure approaching him. Instead, he suddenly finds himself stumbling backwards as a boulder of a shoulder slams into his own. “Watch it, Wings,” his assailant drawls, smirking like it was somehow _his_ fault he got walked into.

Then his gaze, smug and mocking, flickers to the air just beside Azriel. His eyebrow only has to move a slight fraction for Az to know he has slipped; with more fury than he has allowed himself to feel in a long time, he yanks the darkness back into himself and turns away. What a bastard.

“Sorry about that,” Grave murmurs as they walk away, glancing back over his shoulder. “I swear, he’s impossible sometimes.

“You should manage your men better.” The snarl slips out of his lips before Az can stop it. Shit. He clears his throat, and says more evenly,“But I know how difficult it can be.”

To his astonishment, Graves _laughs_. At least it seems his cock up has gone unnoticed. “If it gets you to talk a little more, perhaps I should order him back for another round. God knows he could use it. If you ever want to repeat the Lington incident, you’re welcome to have him as tribute.” Bashfully, he scratches the back of his neck. “I mean, he’s vital and part of the crew but-” Thankfully, his doleful apology is cut off by the racket of their entering the dinner’s tent.

And what a racket it is. Az thinks they must have found the wrong tent, for never has he known a commanding officers gathering to be quite like this. Two identical girls are throttling one another against the table, whilst an elderly man and a scarred, battleworn woman egg them on in raised voices. The weapons master suddenly looks rather docile in comparison, chewing on his bread in silence.

Beside Az, Graves is calling for silence but he does so in vain. The girls fall off of the bench, rolling about in the dirt to the delight of their audience. Only the smith looks up from his plate and grunts in acknowledgement.

The situation is worse than Az thought.

After watching Graves get increasingly desperate for a few moments, he clears his throat. Again, it is not loud nor particularly aggressive, and yet the entire tent falls quiet. All look up at him, even the pair on the ground. And then, once more, they erupt.

Suddenly two people, the girls going by the hair tickling his nose, have their arms wrapped around his middle, and the older woman is ruffling his hair. Behind them, the cook raises a goblet and cheers, quite clearly inebriated. The entire display is yet another testament that you can only trade one hell for another. Being ostracised by the Illyrians was better than this.

“Shoo, shoo, get off him you pests,” Graves fusses, grappling the girls off of him and ushering everyone back to their seats. He looks thoroughly embarrassed, enough so that at least Az does not feel alone in his discomfort. Still, whilst he is having to give his everything to stay _in_ the tent, Graves is smiling fondly. “Gang, meet Lieutenant Azriel. Lieutenant, the gang.”

So off his guard from the _hugging_ is he that he barely manages a fraction of a nod. The twins laugh, though not with as much malice as he is accustomed to - more disturbing is the look of warm sympathy the mature woman is shooting him. He is genuinely terrified she is about to start mothering him.

“I imagine you’ve forgotten all of our names by now. Or didn’t catch them amongst the rest of Capne’s drivel. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon,” she says, nodding in Graves’ direction. Az is too stunned to even blanche at the fact that they refer to their superior officer by his first name.

“Here’s the refresher course then: That’s our blacksmith, Sethlans, but we all just call him Smithy. The two ‘pests’ are Tyr, he’s the feral one, and Pultuce, and she’s the even more feral one. And this old man,” she claps the elderly gentleman on the shoulder, chuckling as he jeers in theatrical protest, “is Menle, who is our cook, so don’t piss him off or who knows what he’ll do to your food. You’ve already met Capne, of course. We don’t all talk as much as him, I promise. Oh, and I’m Vecuvia, though the recruits find it a mouthful and a half, so Ve will do nicely. I stop everyone from killing each other, mostly. And that’s about it. That’s us. Your new officers. Good to finally meet you, Lieutenant.”

Already he is othered, the only one referred to by his title. And yet he dares not correct them, because the concept of referring to anyone so intimately, or being called such by strangers, is as to him as the idea of running naked through the streets.

For the first time, he realises that the Night Court truly is his home. And for another first time, he finds he misses it, especially by how their jovial attitudes remind him of Cassian.

Only because Graves - or Capne, he supposes - physically guides him is he able to take his seat. Stiff-backed, he looks at the five expectant faces looking to him, and instead settles for watching the smith as he scowls at his soup. At least there is someone here who acts like what he is accustomed to.

“So, tell us about-” Tyr or Pultuce - he’s not sure which - starts to say, but they receive a brisk cuffing on the ear from Vecuvia.

“Don’t bother the poor man on his first night here. There’ll be plenty of time for tall tales later,” she instructs firmly, her old title of Captain shining through boldly. Az quickly decides, despite the hair ruffling, she isn’t so bad. “And no more brawling in tents. Else you idiots can put it back up again. Now,” with a brief, respectful smile to Az, she turns away from him to face the cook. “Menle, you promised to tell me what you did to get yourself exiled. I didn’t give you my liquor supply for nothing: fess up.”

Just like that, Azriel is left alone. Though no battle is ongoing, he feels more like he’s been dragged through a hurricane now than after any battle, the whirlwind of introductions and grabbing and immediate friendliness utterly disorienting to him. Still, even after ten minutes it becomes clear that unless he initiates conversation, they are happy to leave him be. Probably Rhys’ work.

They seem almost unaware of his presence, though occasionally the twin he believes to be Tyr whines for him to defend his honour as his commanding officer. Were he not so shaken, the story Menle discloses to them might even elicit a laugh from him.

 _Something_ is out of place, however, and it is not until he finishes his meal that he realises what it is. “Where is private Liu?” He asks privately of Graves, who thankfully is seated next to him. Matching his conspiratorial whisper, he replies,

“Liu doesn’t normally eat with us. He’s allowed to, of course, I invited him when he first joined us but… I’m not sure he is too fond of us.” His tone indicates that he is putting things delicately. He shrugs. “To each their own, I suppose. He’s not the best dinner conversation anyway.”

Swallowing, Azriel looks around him at the drinking and laughing and chatting. Again, it becomes starkly obvious which side of the fence he is on. Forcing a smile, he leans forward and tells himself he will participate. He will be ‘one of them’. Even if all the while his body is screaming to destroy something.

 

* * *

 

 

More than a little tipsy, Azriel is more grateful than ever for his adaption to the dark as he tries to navigate back to his tent by moonlight. Thankfully, the other officers still linger at dinner, thus are not present to witness him tripping over tent wires and pegs. Some fearsome killer he is.

“You really gotta work on watching where you’re going, Wings.” In future, Azriel will most certainly blame the alcohol for the fact that he squeaks and jumps out of his skin at the sudden voice. Spinning around, it takes him two full circles to spot the figure in the shadows.

It is him again, the man who barreled into him without so much as an apology, let alone a little respect for military protocol. Booze having softened his guard up, Azriel lets loose a scowl. Without a word to the man he has labelled a bastard, he stalks off. He’s pretty sure his tent isn’t in this direction, but anywhere is better than with the stalker he seems to have acquired in the space of a few hours.

“You just tripped over it, Peaches. Yeah, no, not that one. Back one. Yeah, you got it. That’s the one.” The laughter in the bastard’s tone is enough to drench Azriel in shadows, but he doesn’t care what this particular idiot thinks of him. Instead he storms into the tent directed to him, and mentally condemns the man to have a nasty run in with the Weaver.

“Oh my Lieutenant, so _forward_ ,” drawls the same nasal voice as Azriel strips off his clothes. He flat out glowers at the fool who has made the mistake of entering his tent. “Would you kindly get out of my tent, please,” The man says, beating him to it. Wait, what? “I could report this as sexual harassment you know.”

Realising that the clothes draped over a chair are indeed _not_ his, Az catches on to just what kind of a trick has been played on him and can’t help himself snarling. With the same kind of casual aggression as he’d been shown, he shoulders past the bastard and out of the tent. “Next one over, Lieutenant,” the man calls from behind him. “You know, the one I actually directed you towards?”

Because he is drunk, and because he refrained from actually killing the man, Azriel allows himself to do something perhaps _a little_ petulant. Smirking maliciously, he kicks one of the pegs supporting the tent out of the ground. For the first time in years, he laughs without reluctance or discomfort as the sounds of a very annoyed man having his tent fall on him blast out across the camp.

Perhaps this hell won’t be quite so hellish after all.  


	3. Chapter 3

**Mor**

 

Though she is supposed to be weighing in on courtly manners, Mor quickly finds her place not at the council table, but in the courtyard. Despite being a lone abomination amongst the humans, she manages to shed the dysphoria creeping upon her skin there and only there. Race does not matter when you are fighting for your life. All that counts is winning.

“Again,” she yells as her three fallen opponents. It takes some effort to remember they are only sparring partners, not actual enemies. Grumbling, they push themselves back onto their feet and tighten their grips on their swords. She of course is not _really_ showing off as she twirls her own wooden baton between her fingers and milks her expression of exasperation at having to wait.

“Shoulders back. Stance wider. _Wider_ .” She snaps at their feet with the tip of her stick. With another groan, they tidy up their posture. In her defence, they did _ask_ her to show them a trick or two. They never specified how long training should go on for: two hours seems quite reasonable to her. Now that they’re on their third, she could understand a little lethargy, but they look positively ready to wring her neck. Although she has proven rather deftly that they couldn’t even get close if they tried.

“We mere humans aren’t quite as resilient as the trainers you may be used to, Advisor,” warns a voice she hasn’t heard in days. Resisting the urge to snap at her charges when they relax, Mor instead turns to face the Queen. Though they have hardly seen each other since her arrival, she knows enough to drop swift to her knees.

“Your Highness.”

“Morrigan, _please_. Just because Sirius snapped at you that one time, you do not need to be quite so formal every time we meet. I was rather hoping I could convince you to release your prisoners. I know you are still settling in, but I’m afraid I require your services.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Mor agrees without question.

In the past two weeks, she has learned two unexpected things: she despises the formality of court as much here as she did back home, but also that she truly does admire this new human queen. They have barely spoken more than a few words to one another, so she cannot explain it, but just looking upon her highness inspires such warmth in the pit of her stomach, such unmerited joy. She thinks it is perhaps because she has never before witnessed a woman in her power. The sight of her is the one thing she has found that genuinely abates the terror riling in her stomach.

Rising, she glances back at the aforementioned prisoners. “Next time, don’t drop your guards when someone else engages your opponent. And practice your footwork.” She can almost feel the queen laughing behind her, but self-conscious as she is she adds, “Good work. You’re better than a lot of fledglings I’ve trained.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“As you were.”

Dismissing them with a nod, she goes to flank the Queen. Instead of letting her follow behind, however, Andromache links their arms together. “I must apologise, Advisor. We haven’t really gotten a chance to talk since your arrival. I know it must seem dull to you, all our talk of crops and trade and construction and democracy. Your friend the Captain told me how back with the Illyrians, you were the only one capable of besting him in a fight.”

“I was expecting more… war-oriented discussions,” Mor confesses, trying not to think about how sweaty and grimy she is.

Beside her, Adromache is as decadent as ever, dressed in a lady’s finery for court. Today she is cloaked in a dress of regal purple, her arms bejewelled with gold bands and beadwork alike. At her throat, she wears a blood-red ruby, as big as Mor’s fist. She cannot help but wonder how amongst the rebellion, the Queen managed to acquire it.

“Oh, but they have all been matters of war,” the Queen responds with a serene smile. “You are thinking of battle, my dear.  And I’m afraid very few wars are won by those particular occasions.” Clearly, Mor’s scepticism shows on her face, for Andromache laughs and pats her arm. “You are young, of course you focus on the excitement of violence and destruction. I do not mean offence, my lady. I used to be exactly the same.”

“I am older than you, you know,” Mor points out, trying not to sound too rude.

“In years, perhaps. But we age differently from you marble-faces.”

“Marble-faces?”

“You’ve never heard it used before? Interesting. It’s one of the kinder phrases we use to refer to your species.”

“Your highness,” Mor says very, very carefully. “Have I done something to offend you?” Again, she earns another laugh from royalty. She can’t help but feel a little bashful. She is here to be a warrior, a guiding force, a statue of pride and accomplishment, yet she often finds in the Queen’s presence she is left feeling like a girl not yet out for her first season.

“Do I not speak like the nobility you are accustomed to?” She asks, halting their patrol down the palace corridors. Mor needs not speak, for her face says it all.

Nodding, the queen thinks for a moment before resuming their journey. “Perhaps I should learn to talk like your fae lords and ladies. It was something I used to take great pains in copying. But now that we’ve actually revolted, actually claimed something for our own… I am starting to lose enchantment with the idea of modelling ourselves after your kind. We are not fae, however we may speak or train or fight, but that does not mean we are less than you. Our history is not yours, even the parts we both partook in.”

Her distant gaze clearing, she blinks, and dazzles Mor once more with that bright smile of hers. “But I am rambling. Perhaps you will advise me on the matter when you’re more settled? I’d like to know your opinion, even if it’s not something you relate to.”

“I-” Mor began, but she stammers and stops. How is she expected to feign wisdom when matched with this- this goddess made flesh? “I did not think you rambling, your highness.”

“That is sweet of you to say,” the queen says, petting her arm with a fondness that Mor did not expect from any human, let alone their Queen. “But you swore to be truthful with me. That includes compliments and white lies, Advisor.”

“I spoke truthfully.”

Stopping outside of the council chamber doors, Andromache releases her and turns to study her. Those golden eyes suddenly become cool and calculating, and Mor is left feeling uncomfortably naked before such a gaze. She even sighs in relief when the Queen brightens once more into a smile. “I do believe you are telling the truth,” she announces. With a gold-plated arm, she reaches out and grips Mor’s left shoulder. “Settle in quickly, Morrigan of the Night Court. I will need someone like you at my side all too soon, I fear.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Again!” Mor yells. The fifteen humans gathered before her regain their starting stances and launch back into the maneuvers she demonstrated. “Good.” She means it; She has only been here a month, and already she is witnessing remarkable improvement amongst those who have started coming to her accidental, definitely-not-official training sessions in the courtyard. “Chin back, Qin. You’re not going to take out anyone with that thin, enormous as it is.” The others laugh, but do not falter.

Trying to look gruff and tough and shit, instead of melting at how proud she is of her little students, Mor crosses her arms over her chest and paces. Fixes a posture here. Corrects a grip there. It is absorbing and rewarding and wholly engaging. That is, until she spots the messenger sprinting down the steps towards them.

“Royal Advisor! Come quickly! You’re needed in the Council Chambers at once!” The boy, barely even a teenager, yells out. The reality that this is war, not just training, sinks back into her. Into them all.

“What’s happened?” Someone yells out from the crowd. The poor boy stutters, looking for aid from Mor.

“You know that’s classified until it’s been discussed by the council,” Mor booms out, mounting her baton back upon the rack and picking up her real sword. “Keep up with the sequences. If you’re not all move for move perfect for all ten of them by the time I get back, you’re running laps around the Palace until sunset. Or I get bored. Whichever comes last.”

They are not quite as perfectly disciplined as she hoped, but she cannot truly critique them as they remain gossiping and watching as she strides over to the boy. “Good to see you got the job, Thomas,” she says to the boy, with a small smile. His grin in response is probably not appropriate for whatever hell in unfurling elsewhere in the world.

“Thanks, Advisor. Other guy died out on scouting so I was the only one left to run it.”

Her smile vanishing, Mor just nods and tries not to ruminate on that. Thomas had been in charge of cleaning her quarters before his ‘promotion’. Thrilled as he seems to be moving up in the ranks, she prays he never has to run beyond the confines of the palace. Suddenly the rush of battle seems a little less glamorous.

Remembering his duties, he scurries ahead, leading the way to the council. “Would you like to change first, Advisor?” He asks. She knows he means nothing by it other than that she stinks from training, but it raises her hackles nonetheless. Her mother would always say the exact same thing whenever she was dragged in from play to come before her father. No dress was ever clean or neat or pretty enough for that woman.

“I’m the sure council will understand my appearance.”

Indeed, though she still feels like a wolf amongst sheep at times, she has never felt more at home in her skin ever since her father’s court had… punished her. Ever since that time, she has kept her hair shaven close to her scalp out of spite, to show them she doesn’t _care_.

Fresh from slavery, the humans look more like her than the noblewomen of the Night Court ever did. Many of the women have short-cropped hair, or dress for practicality over splendour. She too shed her love for dresses and feminine frocks after her exile. Though she misses the joy they brought her dearly, she refuses to dress for others ever again. Never again will she let them think she can be dictated by their opinions.

Instead, she wears only armor, or the tunics and trousers of men. In rebellion, she does not tend to her face as she used to; instead, she reviles it. Sometimes, she can’t even bring herself to wash the dirt from it. Most days, she can’t even look at herself in the mirror.

Shoving down those feelings of unrest, she focuses on what is ahead. This is the first time the council have actively called upon her, although ever since her moment alone with the queen, she’s tried to be more diligent in attending her duties.

“I found her,” Thomas yells as he dashes into the council chambers, Mor in his wake.

“Thank you, Thomas,” the Queen says without looking up from the to scale map they have carved into the table. “That will be all.” Bowing hurriedly, Thomas gives Mor a quick smile before disappearing, sealing the chamber doors behind him.

“Has something happened?” Mor asks, with marked caution, for through she has only been there a moment the air is thick with a new, starker tension. The Queen sighs, not with fondness or kindness as so often before, but with frustration. For the first time, she looks _tired_.

She looks old.

“Hyperion has prevented the southern salt mine from evacuating to join us. He’s not actively slaughtering them exactly, but he is stopping them from leaving. Says their leaving will bankrupt the court within a year.”

“Sorry our freedom is inconveniencing him,” Sirius mutters from her left. A space awaits Mor at her right. She is prompt to take it, though her heart is hammering in her chest. It does not need to be voiced that this will make or break her - their watchful eyes say it all.

“Has he hurt any of them?” Mor inquires, quickly assessing the map before her. One pyramid marker has been used to represent the trapped slaves, whilst twelve designate the forces guarding them. Up in the mountainous hillsides bordering the Night Court, only three denote their own forces. And from what Az sent in his last letter, Mor has a feeling that three is being generous.

“No, not so far. A few are sick - a plague struck recently, which is what drove them to finally join us. Medical treatment can’t reach them until he relaxes the perimeters, and fae physicians have rarely bothered to learn human physiology.”

“Is it really that different?” Mor wonders allowed. They all look to her, though it is the Queen who answers quite calmly,

“What can cause you a mild bit of ecstasy and silliness can kill one of us by the drop. What promotes superficial healing amongst most breeds of lesser fae paralyses us for days.” She gives Mor a fleeting smile. “Sadly, it is not that simple.”

“Why the fuck isn’t Thesan here already?” Jeron, a broad, ebony-skinned man who serves as the human’s General growls. “If he could stop fucking that feather freak for a moment-”

“We do not speak of Maern like that,” Andromache snips. “If it weren’t for him, we’d all be dead already.”

“Apologies, your highness,” Jeron says, a little sourly. Mor has no idea who or what they are talking about, only that Az warned her Thesan was delayed indefinitely from joining them. Relying on him is out of the question.

“Does Hyperion know our numbers?” Mor asks, eyes flickering across the map rapidly. Cassian taught her a lot between flirting over drinks and later training her for battle. She intends to make use of it.

“No,” Andromache answers, watching her. “We’ve worked hard to disseminate legends that we’re ten-thousand strong, five-hundred thousand strong. Whatever we can to keep him nervous.” There is a faint smirk upon her lips. “Why, what are you thinking?”

Whatever she was thinking is irrelevant. She knows how these people’s minds work. She knows how they respond to weakness. “I’m thinking,” she says, straightening. “We do nothing.”

“What?” Sirius hisses, and he is echoed by murmurs from the rest of the council.

Yet Mor does not hesitate. She is here to ensure none of them have to play victim again. “If we expose our weakness to him, he will not hesitate to strike us.”

“So we let them die,” Sirius snaps back.

“So we let them live. And stop the rest of us becoming chopped meat in the process.”

“That’s murder,” he snarls, hands curling into fists upon the hardwood.

“Showing fae lords how weak you are is suicide,” Mor snaps back, her voice cracking into a similar growl. So much for keeping her reputation in tact.

“You just don’t care that there are humans over there dying as slaves, not freed citizens.”

“I’m just pointing out the fact that the second you think fae men will show mercy, they’ll ruin you for it!”

“Enough,” The Queen shouts. All of them, even Mor, fall silent. “Enough,” she spits, staring sternly at all of them, “the lot of you. We have not come this far to devolve into bickering children. Please cease your squalling, and give me something to work with.”

“You wanted the truth, your majesty,” Mor says, pulling herself back from where she’d unconsciously started half-clambering over the table to start a fist fight. Sirius too relents from his offensive position. “I gave it.”

“And I thank you for it,” The Queen answers, yet there is no warmth in her voice this time. “But you too must appreciate that we cannot do something like what you suggest lightly. We have all been in their position before. We have all defied the odds to get here. And we do not leave people behind.”

Biting down on some bitter comment, Mor does not speak again. She retreats into herself as they go back and forth, devising a multitude of complex plans to get the miners out alive, each one more impossible than the last. She listens, but does not comment. Though she tells herself it’s born of pride, the reality is her cheeks are burning. She showed far too much of herself back there. And now all of them - especially _Sirius_ \- have witnessed her colours.

“We have been at this for over an hour,” Jeron exclaims with a wild wave of his arms. Nobody laughs, even when he accidentally bashes Sirius in the face. Well, maybe Mor snorts, but the rest of them are too mournful for laughter. The topic has been exhausted, as have they.

“That we have. And you’ve all come up with some interesting ideas,” Andromache says from where she is now seated at the head of the table. “But we can afford a day to think on it. I will need time to decide. Thank you, for your help.” She looks to each one of them, save Mor. “You are all dismissed. Except for you, Morrigan. I would like to speak with you further.”

Feeling like a school child held back by a tutor, Mor watches the others file out without her. Neither of them say anything until they are alone, the door tightly shut. “So,” Andromache says, drumming her fingers upon the table. “Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“I- I’m sorry, your majesty.” Suddenly very, very tired, Mor collapses back into one of the surrounding chairs. All the strength has vanished from her well-trained limbs. She has endured many training exercises longer than this, yet she does not remember ever feeling this defeated. “I just- I lost my temper.”

“As did Sirius,” The Queen replies cooly. “As did I, at one point. We all do, in these matters. But I was not talking about that, Morrigan.” Exhaling, she leans back in her chair and rests her head back against the stone. With heavy eyelids, she looks over at her Advisor. “Would you like to tell me whatever made you despise your own kind so fiercely?”

Mor knew she’d been too obvious, but she hadn’t expected an interrogation too soon. More important matters were afoot after all. “It doesn’t matter, your highness. I shouldn’t have let it affect my work.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t. But what is said is said, and as you promised, you were but telling your truth. And honesty is something I value above all else, Morrigan. I will never punish you for it.” She gives a wan smirk. “Though I may ask that you refine the manner in which you deliver it in future.”

Chuckling, the noise hoarse from exhaustion, Mor finds herself slumping in her chair as well. It is a moment in which she is not exactly the Royal Advisor, but the Queen does not look too queenly either.  Perhaps, just once, it’s allowed. “I would, however, appreciate knowing what it is that colours your opinions so strongly.” The smile fades too quickly. Mor cannot stand to see such pain on such a woman’s face. “I would not normally push the matter, but as you are well aware, this is war. I cannot afford to be ignorant of that which I have a say in.”

Nodding in understanding, Mor opens her mouth, and then swallows. She realises, with more shock than she was prepared for, that she has never spoken in depth upon the subject. Not even really to Azriel, aside from on that one night, when he found her a delirious, raving mess.

He has been kind enough never to bring it up again.

But in stops and starts, and not so great sentences, she does her best to relay what she tries every day to forget. She avoids any of the gory details, but is keenly aware what she does not say speaks far louder than what she does. In the end, she realises the sun has set outside the window.

And then suddenly, she leaps up. “Fuck. I mean, I’m sorry, your majesty, I-” Looking quite alarmed, the Queen sweeps over to her and takes her hand.

“What is it? Mor-”

“Sorry, no, I’m fine,” Mor says, shaking her head. “It’s just, I left the recruits out in the courtyard sparring under orders not to stop until my return. They-” She does not get to finish, because the queen, weary and drained as she is, is doubled over against the table laughing hysterically.

“Goodness, those poor people,” she weeps through tears of laughter, wiping them dry with the heel of her hand. “Of course you should go to them, before they spar themselves to death. I apologise for delaying you. Give them my apologies too, if you will.” It takes Mor too long to move, because watching _the Queen_ laugh like that was more diverting than all the practices put together. It is hard to remember that she was once a slave, when she laughs like that.

“Yes. Yes of course. Thank you, your majesty.” She is rambling and can’t seem to find her feet as she stumbles about her chair and tries to ignore the blood searing her cheeks. Looking away from her royal highness helps, as does thinking about cold running water, winter, her governess in her underwear.

“Oh, and Mor,” The Queen says, using a nickname she has not told her. Worse, she catches her hand as she makes to leave, and gives it a firm squeeze. “Thank you, for telling me. And I cannot say how sorry I am that you had to endure that.”

“It’s fine,” Mor says through a brutal smile. “It made me who I am today. Without them, in a funny way, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Then I must confess to being selfish.” The Queen does not release her fingers. “For just a little bit, I am glad. They did not know what they were losing.” They are looking at one another, meeting each other’s gaze, and Mor thinks she might pass out. She feels nervous in an entirely new way.

“No,” she says, “They didn’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* no homo...


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only Az could manage to get himself a real life troll before the internet even existed

**Az**

 

Morally, Azriel should be grateful that he and the Dawn fae troops have yet to see battle.

However, in reality this means he has been forced to endure a month of sitting around and… well, enduring. Enduring strangers, enduring noise, and worst of all, enduring questions. Thus far, he has still managed to avoid retelling what happened at the Lington castle, though people ply him about it daily. 

He shouldn’t be complaining. For starters not even sure what he is complaining about. Everyone has been infinitely more welcoming and generous towards him than, well, more so than anyone else in his entire life, if he is being honest. Even Rhysand and Cassian were antagonistic towards him in the beginning, but then again, Cass  _ was _ one moody bastard of a teenager.

Thesan seems to have attracted a particular kind of ‘type’; His army is built out of idealists and optimists and - because the Cauldron hates Az -  _ huggers _ . He has never met the boy, and yet he imagines he must be the epitome of all those traits combined; Despite it promising the chance of finally fighting, Az does not eagerly anticipate his eventual arrival. Especially not if it involves more hugging.

For now, he must be content to spend as much time as possible surveying the surrounding area and the rest of the court. His wings afford him a lot of freedom, and if he prepares he can spend days away from the others. Of course, there are consequences to his absenteeism. Graves fusses too much if he is away much longer than a couple days, and Menle seems to take great offence that he does not always ensure he is back in time for dinner. 

Intellectually, Az knows he should feel guilty. They have been nothing but warm and welcoming since he arrived with them, and as suspected, Vecuvia has not stopped checking up on him. The last time he slept at camp, she even came into his tent in the ending, armed with a steaming mug of some kind of flower flavoured hot beverage. True, it  _ might _ have been delicious, and induced a nightmare-free sleep, but the point still stands. The whole situation is out of hand. 

Still, he thinks he’s been doing an okay job of being civilised. That is, until a reluctant Graves comes shuffling into his tent one morning. 

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” he says with a cheerful smile that does not match his wavering voice. Honestly, Az thinks for a moment that he is coming to confess to some kind of dark crime, which would certainly be an interesting plot twist. “May I speak with you, for a moment? If you’re not too busy, of course.” 

Setting down the map of the surrounding area he’d been studying, he gestures for the other to sit. There are no chairs, so Graves is forced to perch on the edge of his bed. He repositions himself three times. Rubs his ankles together for a good minute. Repositions himself again. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“Oh. Sorry, sir. Of course. It’s just…” Graves apparently has a very fascinating lap, for he is staring dead straight at it unblinkingly. “There’s been some talk. Amongst the men.” 

When he is not prompted further,  he risks a glance up and flushes crimson. “You see- and I apologise, I really do not mean to offend you, sir. I am sure you have more than excellent reasons to be away from the troops so much, sir. If Captain Cassian has worked with you, I’m sure you’re just working on a higher level than the rest of us could possibly understand. It’s just that… some of the men are beginning to - and again, I can’t stress how much I do not share this view - they’re beginning to question your loyalty. To your men.” 

Azriel can do little but stare for a moment. He- he has never, ever led a troop before. Honestly, he thought everyone here merely viewed his title as decorative. He certainly does. He hasn’t even- he swallows. 

He hasn’t even been in a fight since the Lington incident. 

“I apologise,” he says to his fingers. He can feel that he has gone very still,  _ too _ still, the kind of still that people feel. He can feel the cool brush against his skin that promises a storm to come. But he will not give into it. Not again. “I should have thought how it would look.”

“No, no, it’s not your fault, not at all,” Graves babbles, leaping up from the bed and moving towards him. Unlike when they first met, however, he keeps his distance. 

Smart.

“I just- I thought I’d let you know. It would be helpful if, perhaps just to let the troops adjust to you being here, you could maybe spend a little more time around camp. I know a lot of them were hoping you help with training.”

“I’m no Cassian.” Graves laughed.

“I think honestly, they just want to show of to you. Everyone’s hoping you’ll put a good word in for them. We’re aware,” his blush deepens, “that this is not exactly the position given to those most talented. And it’s true, most of us are so new to this, we must look like children to you.” With those large doe-eyes of his, he looks up at Azriel and smiles all shy and hopeful. It makes Az sick. How can someone look at him like that, when in the same moment he is a breath away from killing him, however accidentally? “But they’re all hard workers, Lieutenant. They’ve come so far since last year. Give them a chance, if you can.” 

It is not that Az does not care. He does, he  _ wants _ to be whatever this godlike figure the men want him to be. He wants to be great at this, like Cassian - something he would never admit to the dolt himself. Yet even as Graves gives this heartfelt speech, he can feel his skin itching, his head buzzing. Though he is there, right there in the room with Graves, he feels strangely disconnected. Like his skin is not his own. 

Clawing his way back to his body, he forces himself to nod. Even smile, though it comes out as a grimace. “Could I assess them today?” When Graves lights up like starfall, it is really too much. He deserves better than this. 

“Oh, absolutely. They’ll be thrilled. Oh, thank you Lieutenant, thank you! How about you come with me this morning, and I’ll take you over to Private Liu for his afternoon sessions?” 

Thus far, Az has managed to avoid meeting the elusive Private Liu. It seems that today, his luck truly has run out. 

However, whilst standing watching the fledglings train, it becomes apparent his luck ran out a long time ago. He was just too avoidant to notice it. 

Between Graves calling for stances and maneuvers and footwork patterns, the troops barely look away from Azriel. All the gossiping and whispering does not seem to bother the Sergeant one bit, as though he’s more than used to it, which Az tries to take some comfort in. Yet it is obvious that whatever respect he carried with him when he first arrived, his behaviour has crushed it to a pulp. Still, he is not sure he has done anything to deserve quite this level of scrutiny. 

“Oh, you’ve deigned us worthy of gracing with your presence, have you?” The worst voice in the world coos behind him. He does need to turn to know it is Tent-Bastard. After all, the man is yet another reason he feels the urge to flee this damn place. 

In the past month, he has somehow managed to run into  _ him _ more often than Graves, who is always actively looking for him, and even the boy assigned to help him with menial chores. On all occasions, he has not failed to be annoying. “Still not talking to me, huh?” Stepping away from lurking at Az’s shoulders, he comes to stand beside him. He is just a hair shorter than him, and twice as slight, and yet he never fails to look infinitely cocky. Crossed arms, tilted pose, he exudes a kind of confidence that rivals even Cassian’s affected aura.

Az really hates him. 

Since thus far, he has abstained from engaging the bastard in conversation, he sticks to his guns and remains silent. Talking would only encourage him. They stand, unspeaking, for what feels like a year, but is probably closer to an hour. It is only just as the troops are wrapping up for midday mealtime that T-B leans over to him, and whispers, “How long, do you think, until they figure out what you are?” 

Teasing means nothing to Az; He’s used to it. What infuriates him is that he fails to maintain a bored expression, feeling his brow tick. Ever irritatingly perceptive, the other man grins at it. “If they’re thinking about killing you now, what  _ will _ they do when it all comes out?” 

So determined to ignore him, Az doesn’t realise what’s been said until it is too late. The man has vanished, his black hair bobbing away between the tents. Watching the men dissipate to get food and relax, Az can feel his skin prickling. Why would they-? 

Why in Prythian would Rhys send him here, to ‘lead’? He can barely lead himself, let alone a swarm of people who apparently want him dead. Or the bastard could just be fucking with him. The latter seems more likely, and yet now that it’s been said, he can’t help but take every glance and whisper the wrong way. 

How has this happened in only a month?

 

***

 

“Tell me about Private Liu,” Az requests, as Graves leads him across the camp. Whilst recruits train in the open paddock beside the camp, Liu’s men are relegated to the cliff edge bordering the hill. More often than not, he has spotted them on his flights racing down the cliff face, or flitting between the trees of the forest below. The survival-based tactics is awfully Illyrian for someone he has been told is a Dawn Court high fae. 

“Absolute brute of a man, if you don’t mind me saying.” Till this day, Liu is the only one Az has heard the Sergeant talk ill of, and he doesn’t even sound guilty for doing it. “When we were crossing to make our way here from the capital, he’s half the reason we survived. It was scary though. Just watching him. Makes you realise there are people out there like that. People who just  _ are _ killers, you know?”

“I didn’t know Dawn  _ had _ brutes,” Az says, choosing to ignore that question. 

“I didn’t know there were soft-spoken Illyrians, but people surprise you,” Graves responds with a grin. Could he really be plotting Azriel’s death behind his back? Surely if the rumors were true, however, Graves would have reported it back to him. 

Keeping it from his face, Az realises with a start that he already may have done just that. Perhaps the reason he asked him to be more present around the camp is just for that reason: To deter whatever has driven the troops to planning his murder. 

Mentally cursing the Tent-Bastard for planting this stupid weed in his brain, Az bites down on his tongue. If he is being targeted, he can’t afford to let them know he’s aware. Besides, Graves is more than able to fill the quiet. “Although, I will say, he’s not exactly a ‘standard’ Dawn fae. He was originally from over on the Continent, from what I heard. And yes, I know most of us have ancestry back over there, but… you can tell he’s not quite as ‘civilized’ as a native.”

Funny. Most people say the same thing about Illyrians. 

Drawing away from the tents, they happen upon a far smaller collection of people than the morning’s affairs. Thirty soldiers at most stand, listening to a slight man lecture them; Apparently, they wouldn’t last one minute in a real fight. “His methods are a little, ah, avant-garde, shall we say?” Graves says, but Az isn’t listening. 

Because he  _ knows _ that voice. 

So much for not brushing shoulders with Private Liu; The bastard barreled into him on his first day there. 

Gone is the cocky swagger, the slow, lazy movements. As he paces before the small assembly, arms clasped behind his back, Liu moves like a predator. Every aspect of his body language is entirely different from Cassian’s imposing figure, and yet it feels twice as deadly. He is quick and sharp and angular, and for the first time since he was left at the Illyrian training camp, Az experiences fear of another. 

There is something familiar about those movements, but he dares not let himself notice what it is.

“Private,” Graves calls, interrupting the man mid-speech. “The Lieutenant is going to sit in on this session. Perhaps something a little more traditional, for today’s session?” All gathered turn to look at the Illyrian responsible for ruining their training session. 

“But of course, Capne,” Liu yells back, his eyes sliding to Azriel. His smile is transformed here too; He looks like he’s going to eat him. “Anything for the Lieutenant.” 

Humiliation is not something Azriel, who is usually so reserved and exact, is used to feeling. Yet his ears burn hot as he is forced to drag up a chair and sit on the sidelines, watching the man he dropped a tent on train killers. And killers they truly are: he does not mess about with the regimented consistency of army procedures and moves. This is about solo combat. He is teaching them how to slay an army on their own, and though he is but tiny, Az reckons he could probably manage it. 

The whole scenario harkens back to his days in training. Of lingering at the margins, watching. Nothing captivates him like watching flesh hit flesh, punches connecting, people being beaten into the ground in a bloody ruin. He hates himself for every second of it, but he cannot look away. It is water in a desert. 

These hand-picked few do not hold back. There is no chit-chat, no breaks. Each brawl blends seamlessly into another. They target the nervous system, pull of brutal throws, even practice with knives, not swords. Liu is not training soldiers; he is forging assassins. 

They go long past sundown, until the slice of a crescent moon turns the surrounding paddy fields silver. None complain, nor do they slow. Even those with broken noses or cracked ribs do not whimper; They fix what needs to be fixed, and return. Each displays a level of  _ need _ for the violence that Azriel thinks he finally knows what Rhysand actually sent him here for. 

It is a destiny he does not want. Not in a million years.

“Alright. We’ll be out in the forest for two nights starting tomorrow, so eat well in the morning. No food is to be brought with you - if I find anyone smuggling supplies, I’ll have Menle suspend their rations for a week. Are we clear?” 

“Sir,” the soldiers yell back.

“Good. Whoever wins gets the rations of the idiots I know will try anyway. Sleep well.” 

As his class fades away, not one grumbling - though a few look a little put out - Private Liu remains. Hands slipping into his pockets, he regains the usual arrogant slant to his spine and hips. Though Azriel waits, he says nothing. Just stands there, looking up at the perfect night sky of stars, not a cloud in sight. “How romantic,” he drawls. And here Az was thinking for once he’d keep his trap shut. 

“So, are you bent or what?” Liu asks, pivoting on his heel to look back at his companion. How he can see Az’s stupefaction in the low lighting, Az knows not, but still he clarifies, “You were staring  _ real hard _ at shirtless men for nigh on eight hours. I’m just trying to figure out what I’m working with here.”

“There were women too,” Az points out, because why is this the conversation they have to have? Who follows up ‘you’re a dead man’ with ‘are you queer’?

“Lo and behold! So he does have a tongue!” Liu sidles up to him, towering over him despite his lack of height thanks to the fact that he made the mistake of staying put in his seat. He should have fled when he had the chance. “And I have never seen a straight man quite so absorbed in watching a woman beat up another man.”

“You’d be surprised.” Cassian was an easily aroused kind of guy. 

“Two sentences in one night. Graves really did get to you. Did he do the puppy dog eyes thing? Deadly stuff.”

Scowling, because Liu has no right to be this friendly with him, he purses his lips and asks, “Why did you never tell me who you were?” 

“You never asked,” Liu responds with a shrug, as if they’d merely chatted about the weather. “Plus after you destroyed my home, I didn’t feel too inclined to share personal information.”

“It was one peg.”

“It was very alarming. Although, I must admit, I was a little bit proud. I didn’t think you had it in you. You might prove devious yet.” 

Since he has already relented on his cold shoulder policy, Az mimics Liu’s condescending drawl, “And you have been so obsessed with me why?” Standing, he regains the height advantage and gets to stare down at the shorter man, smug as anything. It shouldn’t feel this good to be cruel, let alone to act out like this around the camp, but he has been straining himself for weeks now. Politeness has never felt so suffocating. 

“Obsessed is a very strong word. Morbidly curious would be more accurate,” Liu says, staring right back. Az has never met anyone who does not cower before his glares, not even Cassian can withstand them. This shit just grins. “Maybe I’m just after your ass. Why else do people join the army, after all?” 

“You have an eccentric brand of flirting, if that’s true.”

“It got you shirtless in my tent, didn’t it?” 

Because this just- just isn’t a discussion that should be occurring, Az breaks the staring contest and pushes past towards the camp. “If you’re just going to mock me, I’ll go back to ignoring you.” Like a wise person would. Too bad for the both of them that Az has a month of pent up restless frustration prowling beneath his skin, and Liu seems to have a talent for rousing it. 

“You really want to know?” 

He stops, so however begrudgingly, Az follows suit. Even worse, the private starts wandering back over to the cliff edge. And Az, in spite of all his dignity, follows him. 

“You know that old saying, in the Cauldron legends? ‘Like calls to like’. I think that’s it.” Balanced with his boots just a tip over the drop, Liu glances over from the moon to his reluctant companion. 

“We are nothing alike,” Az growls. Never mind every description he’s been given of the man is one he’s heard for himself. 

“Oh no, of course not. You’re much more like Capne. Or perhaps you’re more of a Vecuvia. Or Menle. That’s why you keep running into them, not me. Why, I never see you parted from their side.”

Azriel has not attended a single officers dinner since that first night. He is certain Liu has not either, and yet somehow the bastard knows. “Someday soon, you’re going to snap. I can see it on your face,” Liu says, unblinking, stabbing him in place with his gaze. “And when that day comes-”

He does not get to finish. 

The hillsight erupts with light, and they are falling.

 

***

 

The blindness has not worn off, even by the time they come around. Azriel takes this as a good sign that they haven’t been out too long. What is less reassuring is the stark daylight that appears to be flooding the hills and valley below, despite the moon still just visible above. 

There is only one man with that kind of power. 

“Hyperion,” he grunts, spotting where in the space of a meter, the land seems to drop into absolute darkness. 

Pulling twigs and leaves from his hair, which must have caught when they fell through the forest treetops below - well, now  _ above _ \- he surveys the damage. His wings are scratched in some places, but relatively unharmed. More disturbing is the fae bastard lying curled inside of one of them. 

Typical. The only time Azriel’s subconscious does something nice, and it’s preventing this cunt from falling to his death. Stupid bloody instincts. “Get off,” he snaps at Liu, shoving at him. No response. “Hey,” he says more loudly, shifting to lean over said cunt. It becomes apparent his rescued damsel is unconscious. 

It really, truly, dearly pains Azriel that it has come to this: He gives Liu what must surely be the hardest slap of his life. “Fucking Cauldron,  _ fuck! _ ” He hisses, scrambling to his legs and whipping a dagger out from god knows where. Spotting Azriel, and the trees surrounding them, he starts to catch up with the situation. 

“If you’re quite done having a little nap,” Az drawls, getting to his feet and dusting his poor, crumpled wings off, “we need to get back to camp. If Hyperion’s attacking,  _ someone _ will need to organise them.” 

“Not a chance,” Liu snips, not quite so invulnerable now that he’s wearing a hedge in his hair. 

“You think  _ Sergeant Graves _ can lead them alone?”

“I think Capne is perfectly capable. Besides, the panic will do him some good. Wake him up a bit to reality,” Liu says, speaking very quickly all of a sudden. His posture has shifted once more, his body crouched to keep his center of gravity low, his limbs tensed. Even as he speaks to Azriel, he is constantly checking the surrounding area. “But if we’re under a surprise attack, then the camp will be in chaos. Even with your mighty self there, it’ll take a good hour to get any semblance of order in place. And it’s too much of a risk for you to be there during that hour.” 

“A risk? I hardly pose a risk to-”

“No, moron. You bumble about there whilst Graves is looking elsewhere, and someone will come for your throat in a second. Especially given how we just got  _ attacked _ by Hyperion himself.”

Again, though there is no actual reasoning in place, Azriel finds himself believing him. Yet he knows his duties; As commanding officer, he has to be there to command. Even if he has no real idea what he’s doing. “Explain,” he orders, tapping his foot in impatience.

Sighing, Liu pinches the bridge of his nose and swears in some foreign tongue. Speaking so fast Azriel can hardly understand him, he launches into speech, “Listen. Everyone here? Dawn fae. Everyone except you, an  _ Illyrian _ from the Night Court, also known as the place where a city literally known as the Court of Nightmares is based. You, an Illyrian who has been constantly flying off elsewhere for days, before popping back for a quick check in. You, who refuse to speak to pretty much anyone unless they annoy you into action. You, who seem to be acting like the most obvious, talentless spy in the history of spies.”

For a moment, the only sound is an owl hooting in complaint at its night being cut short. “I- I’m not a spy though,” Azriel says thickly, his head feeling like wood. He has been doing everything within his power to seem normal and stable to these people, and in return for his efforts, he has been labelled a spy.  _ Him _ . A man who can barely act to save his life. Just the idea of him being a spy is ludicrous, let alone Rhysand sending him here as one.

“Yeah, I know that. But to everyone else, it really does seem like it. And now, Hyperion has attacked us. This being the same Hyperion who thinks we have an army of millions, and has been quaking in his nice cushy palace for the past few months. And what does that mean?”

“Someone’s told him the truth,” Azriel realises aloud, paling. Oh Cauldron. He really has been an idiot. 

“Seems that way. No way he could have scouted it out, we’ve had every light worker available to us keeping illusions of our fearsome army up since the start. Somewhere in our camp, there’s a traitor. And right now, that is confirming for everyone else what they already knew about you. So let’s not go and give them their new stake-accessory quite so easily, yes?” 

It is entirely inappropriate, but Az can’t help being amused by how flustered Liu suddenly is. Especially since he’s so tiny, and keeps waving his arms around. “Why are you smiling at this? I’m not joking. This isn’t some evil ruse.” 

“You just,” Az says through the back of his hand, which he is definitely not laughing behind, “look so  _ uncool. _ ” 

Fifteen minutes later, Az drops Liu down on the valley grass, and lands beside him. “You’re really shit at flying properly. Isn’t it supposed to be inherent in you bat boys?”

“You throwing a rock at my head might have had something to do with it.”

“Pussy,” Liu jeers, a little green, but otherwise all in working order. 

The enormous palace before them seems serene and calm, save for the noise of screaming and shouting emanating from inside. Panic floods Az’s chest as he thinks of Mor, of Mor bloodied and bruised. Mor with a letter nailed to her stomach. 

“Spooky,” Liu observes, breaking his spiral into horror. He is looking over at him, or more just beside him, as the inky shadows shifting and snaking around him on the ground. 

“Fuck,” Az swears, urging them to vanish, to vanish, to vanish, to vanish, to-

“Your blue balls are doing the glowing thing again.” 

Freezing rigid, Az closes his eyes and tries to focus. He might hate Liu, but he would want even him to meet a fate like the one threatening to tip overboard. Besides, if he allowed things to get that bad, what was there to stop it spreading to the palace, to Mor, and all the humans with her? “I can’t go in there,” Az breathes, shuddering from the effort of not exploding. 

“What, why-”

“I just can’t. They’re better off without me.” 

Frowning at him in confusion, Liu is for once devoid of a comeback. He merely stares, before nodding slowly. “Because you’re scared of them, or of you?” Azriel is too pent up to even hate him for being so insufferably perceptive. 

“Humans don’t scare me. And Hyperion certainly doesn’t.” 

Studying him for a painfully long minute, Liu eventually straightens. “Then we go further. You fly us over, and we’ll come up behind their forces.”

“You’re not coming with me,” Az says without missing a beat. 

“Oh sweetie,” Liu says with a soft, soft smile. “You don’t get a choice.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bae-perspective

**Andromache**

 

Sleep does not come easy these days, least of all when five-hundred lives are resting atop Andromache’s crown.

She should be sleeping, well aware that few rational decisions were ever made on the back of insomnia. However, should and can are very different matters. Not to mention she has to write her letter to Rhysand.

 _‘Dear Rhysand’_ , she begins, her quill scratching against the parchment. The candle atop her writing desk flickers in the draft from the open windows, but she has become used to darkness these past years.

 _‘I regret to say that I am writing to you to request that you send an alternative member of your court to fill the role of Advisor. Following recent events-_ ’ She stills. Listens to her shallow breathing as she tries to find the right words, though she knows are there are none for matters such as this.

What she needs is someone with the capacity for hope. Someone who can see the light where there is none. Heavens, she needs someone insane enough to believe that this farce is somehow possible.

The last thing her people need right now is a sceptic. Especially one so rightfully set against her own race. “Oh Morrigan.” She sighs, setting her pen back in its inkwell and slumping back in her chair. Today has been a long, long day. The last thing she needed straight after Hyperion makes his first move is to realise her only inside source is unequipped to do the simple, vital act of believing in them.

In believing in anything, she fears.

Not for a second does she place the blame on the girl’s shoulders. How could she, when she too has felt the cruelty of oppressors all too familiar to herself and her people? Yet she is not on a stage anymore, no longer spoilt with academic debate about the ethics of what is wrong and what is neccessary. In time, she hopes that Morrigan will find strength in faith once more, but time is not something she can afford to waste anymore.

Where fae have centuries to discover and build themselves, she has decades at most, days if the situation does not improve. Always, when she accepted this crown, did she vow to be kind. To be _better_ than those that came before her. But at what cost? At what point does she draw the line and sacrifice the weak for the sake of the strong?

Perhaps there are answers, but she will not find them in the breadth of a night. She laughs to herself, at herself. What would her mother say, if she saw her now? Playing at being queen, thinking she can change something.

But her mother is dead, and she remains. Standing, she snatches the drafted letter and tosses it into the embers of the fireplace. She will rewrite it in the morning, when she has had time to think. Whether she will tell the Advisor before sending it or not remains to be seen. Until Rhysand can send her a replacement, she may have need of her yet. Thankfully, she’s far from stupid, and the soldiers seem to rather respect her now that she’s loosened up a little.

Were the circumstances any different, she would love to keep her around. But war is war, and queen though she may be, she is a commander first. If she does not prioritise her people, who will?

Just how long has she been writing? Looking up from the smoking letter, she notes sunshine peeking in from behind the curtains. With a frown, she crosses over and throws them open. Beyond the windows, it appears to be broad daylight. Peering through the glass, she looks about. A crescent moon is just visible in the sky, and then she spots it; Far in the horizon, brightest day suddenly plunges into blackest night, as if a bubble’s membrane divides and safeguards the two from one another.

“No,” she breathes, disbelief detaining her for a moment.

And then she must be queen.

Discarding her melancholy for a better, later time - if she should be so lucky as to see such a thing - she pulls on something more inspiring than a nightgown, and straps on her armor. Though she seizes her sword for decoration, it is her bow she keeps drawn and ready, the weight of it in her palm the only comforting thing she has left.

For just a fraction of a second, she pauses inside her chambers. Once she steps through that door, she will be a public figure once more. She must be a queen. And somehow, from whatever is happening, she must save them all. No pressure then.

Swallowing, she kicks her door open and rushes out. She is met with silence.

Down corridors and across the expanse of the courtyard, she can hear muffled voices start to question the impossible light. She knows what she must do: she _must_ beat the panic. Racing from her chamber doors, she hurries down the entrance hall to her quarters and down the steps to the courtyard. People are sticking their heads out of their lodgings to see what is happening, and though they spot her running, she will not let them see fear.

This must be their first taste of fighting, not of fleeing. Trying to force her movements to be slow, imposing, she seizes the beater beside the gong at the head of the courtyard, and strikes. The resounding ring echoes out across the entire complex, off of the hillsides themselves, so loud she knows the fae must have enchanted it. Good. It seems fitting that they should defeat them on the ruins of their own hubris.

At the summons, more emerge, most shaken fresh from sleep and still bleary. “Hyperion is making his move,” she yells with all the ferocity and gravitas that she can muster. “Soldiers, seizes your weapons and man the defences. We hold the fort until Lieutenant Azriel and his men reach us. As for everyone else, help where you can. There is nowhere to hide here. Which means,” she flashes a smile that does not show the terror shaking her bones, “we’ll just have to drive them out.”

  


***

 

For most, it is their first time fighting fae soldiers.

Before, when they reclaimed the valley and hillsides, they faced merely a handful of guards and slave masters, and a sprinkling of diplomats. Few of them had engaged in real combat, and with the element of surprise, the human rebels had easily overthrown them.

They do not fight scared pacifists now.

Though intelligently designed, a fort this size requires more soldiers than they have to man the defences. Andromache watches as it is boys of barely even ten running back and forth with fresh supplies of arrows, and it is a gaggle of girls that overturns a cauldron of boiling oil onto the assailants below. Pregnant women lob down rocks and firebombs alongside the elderly and the crippled.

No one can risk not helping. No one wants to cower as they clamour for their basic right to freedom.

Andromache is lucky. She has seen combat before, against even trained fae. More importantly, she was trained to fight them specifically. Dawn High Fae are her ideal targets; As she looses an arrow from her bow, she knows exactly where to strike the weak points in their armour. When they raise their arms to cast blinding flashes, she is already screwing her eyes shut and firing. Each formulaic method of attack she can extrapolate from the very first movements, for she knows their fighting style, their training, all too familiar with the swift, exact techniques they practice to perfection.

She has been trained in exactly how to exploit that perfection, that predictability. She is no natural warrior, but when you are trained by the best fighter in the entirety of the Dawn Court, you tend to pick up a few tricks. Each arrow that pierces the glinting gold and red armour of the fae who scaled the palace walls is yet another reminder of how much she owes to Maern.

That line of thinking is a twinge in her heart that she does not need right now. Up on the battlements, she ducks and dives between pillars and picks off each of the bastards scaling the wall, her ash arrows quick and true and deadly. Around her, others hurry to dislodge grappling hooks or quickladders. No bowing this time, for right now, she is just another survivor.

However, as the initial flurry and adrenaline rush ebbs, their inexperience becomes startlingly apparent. Though Jeron used to be squire to a fae general, he was hardly given the chance to study battle strategy, or modern fighting tactics for that matter. He yells orders as best as he is able, but as each fresh batch of soldiers he sends to safeguard the rooftops is felled in a mere flash of disorientating light, people start to realise they are not holding their own. They are losing.

Andromache is wracking her brain for ideas when the palace gates burst in. A battalion of fae ride in atop rhiceratops, their three massive horns alone enough to barrage all resistance out of the way. As they forge the way in through the halls, their steeds struggling to navigate the numerous columns, footsoldiers surge to lead the front. Footsoldiers each armed with swords of blazing light, that cut through flesh like a hot iron.

She has barely taken a step forward when the slaughter begins. Those who had been providing support at the gates are cut down by the dozen. Everyone, from their most elite warriors to scrawny messenger boys fall prey to the expertly executed assault. The front moves in synchronisation, surging and eradicating, rinse and repeat.

“Your highness,” Sirius pants, appearing behind her. His skin is sallow, drenched in sweat, and each ragged breath is strained only further by his asthma playing up. “We need to evacuate.”

“We are doing no such thing. Where is Jeron?”

“He’s- Any, I don’t think he’s going to make it. He-”

“He’ll make it. We are going to make it.”

Her words are drowned out by the shrieks of bloodshed, and for a moment she is tempted to cry. It was so much easier, just being a girl, rather than a queen. But the moment she gives up, they really have lost. “There’s nowhere for us to evacuate _to_ , Sirius.”

“The fae?”

“Who do you think must have tipped Hyperion off that we weren’t ready?”

They both look sick to their stomachs, and it has nothing to do with the carnage around them. “Order the men to retreat to the dungeons. We can fortify there and-” She cuts herself off mid-sentence, as in an instant, the courtyard is transformed into a whirlwind of fire.

Amongst the roaring flames, all she hears is a roaring battlecry, more animal than human. Grunts and wordless exclamations burst forth, along with the disturbing wet sound of beaten flesh and the thuds of the slain hitting the floors. “Gods, what have they sent in now?” Sirius hisses, crouching behind the walling to take shelter from the furnace of heat exploding from below. Yet Andromache says nothing; She is watching and frowning.

No Dawn fae she’s ever met commanded fire.

“Get everyone you can up here with a bow. If we don’t have enough, they can cover her with whatever projectiles they can find.”

“I’m sorry your majesty, ‘her’?”

“The Morrigan has come to prove me wrong,” Andromache answers with a smile. “And I have never been so glad for someone to do it.”

It is hard not to feel surplus as she stands atop the balconies, soon with most of the other survivors, and simply watches the slaughter. It is still a grim sight to witness, but it is no longer her kin who perish by the second. The Morrigan is fury made flame, and rhiceratops or not, the enemy does not stand a chance.

A few of the older boys laugh nervously. It is quite a sight to witness, this apparition of a woman built like a brick house and stark naked, carving her way through opponents like a hot knife through butter. Curling waves of fire whip around her, dancing across her bare skin and leaving not a single blemish behind, though as they meet their marks, the repugnant smell of searing flesh saturates the air.

A few of Andromache’s people fire an arrow or two, but it is futile; Before they can even ricochet off of armour, Mor has burnt the target to cinders. She surges through the court yard, slicing with what appear to be elongated golden thimbles upon her fingers, reserved for those who the fires spare. It is not a kinder fate to meet. Even Andromache blanches as someone has their throat ripped out and splattered across the dust.

“Exactly who _is_ The Morrigan?” Sirius asks, his breath quite knocked from him.

“Our very own Prometheus,” Andromache murmurs, not taking her eyes off of the avenging angel for a second. Even at this distance and among the smoke, she can see her face like a pinpoint of reality amongst a mirage. Vengeance and rage colour her warcries, yes, but there is something more in her. She is fighting _for_ something.

And that is when Andromache knows she will make the perfect Advisor after all.

She relaxes too soon. Just as the wave of troops pouring in the front gate starts to abate, one of the walls of the courtyard comes crashing down in a blast of gunpowder - damn the Dawn court and their love of advanced technology. Most fae are still petrified of the stuff that threatens to rival even their power. But of course, Hyperion and all of his hubris would seize the chance to use it.

As another swarm of invaders surge in from both entry points, Andromache shoulders her bow and draws her blades. “Get everyone down to the dungeons. All trained troops are to follow my lead and extract Morrigan. Once we’ve got her, we’ll join you as soon as we can. Make sure you take Jeron as well.”

“Your highness?” Andromache looks at him and grins. Just like the old days.

“Well, they can’t all fight her at once when we’re in a tunnel now, can they?”

It is a suicide mission, but she doesn’t care. She has built everything she has on the back of suicide missions. Grabbing onto the hook of a pulley system usually reserved to lifting supplies up to the top floors, Andromache looks to Mor. She is struggling now, encircled on all sides by more bodies than even her flames can bludgeon back, but she does not hesitate for a second.   

Andromache has never seen anything more beautiful than the snarl upon her face.

With a silent prayer, she slices the other rope with her khopesh and jumps. The mechanism whirls for a dangerously long time before locking, suspending her just above the courtyard floor. Dropping down, she has the advantage of all the focus being on the blazing woman before her. The woman currently surrounded by well over a hundred men. The woman she needs to reach.

Though it is not her bow, where she has always felt most at home, she grips her blade tight in her hand. She will not let all of their efforts go to waste.

Charging, she bundles into the fray.

 

***

 

“You know,” Mor grunts, “for an old lady, you’re not too bad at this.” She groans as a shieldmaiden bashes her back, sending her knocking into Andromache.

“Is that anyway,” she pauses to kick back the beetlehounds - her least favourite addition to this fight - nipping at her feet, “to speak to your Queen?”

“My apologies, my queen. You’re not too bad for an old hag, _your majesty_.”

Even to her own ears, Andromache can hear the desperation in her responding laughter. She does not know how long they have been stuck like this, pinned back to back, only that she can no longer feel her head. Though Morrigan is only teasing, she has a point; her body is not built for this level of endurance. Already, she can feel herself getting sloppy. Mor has had to save her ass thrice, and that’s only the times she’s noticed.

A cry rings out, and she turns to see Mor crippled to her knees. A beetlehound has managed to scuttle past her defences and latch itself upon her leg. That shouldn’t be enough to cripple anyone though, Andromache things as she is staggered back by two swordsmen. Glancing back, she realises her mistake.

Writhing free from beneath the bugdog’s calcified wings, the biggest boneleech she has ever seen is sinking deeper and deeper into Morrigan’s thigh. It is at least the length of her forearm, and fat as her head. Around them, from the other beetlehounds, she can see the damned things dropping to the floor, most squelching beneath the soldier’s feet. It is a barbaric tactic, and one that Andromache hasn’t heard of being used since the War of the Courts.

As the parasite leeches the very marrow out of Mor’s leg, Andromache suddenly feels a sharp pain against her skull, and the world goes very bright for a moment. She stirs to find herself knocked to the floor, cheek to tail with the boneleech. This close, she can hear the moist sounds of it sucking. Were she not so terrified, she might be sick.

A blazing sword is raised above her head. But she isn’t done yet. Though she can feel the hot stickiness of blood staining her jaw, she tucks and rolls to the side. More and more leeches are dropping around them, in some kind of sick nightmare made reality. Hyperion must really want her dead. The sword misses though, and in its swing, it slices Mor’s attachment in half. It’s head remains buried deep within her flesh, but it at least it falls motionless. Mor herself has still not stopped screaming in pain.

Scrambling for her khopesh, Andromache cannot help but cry out as a boot slams down upon her ankle. Her arm stretches, but her fingers do not quite brush the hook of the blade. She grunts, trying to scoot closer, trying so hard to ignore the slick, fat leeches wriggling towards the scent of her open wound.

Then, as if the night itself has turned against her, a tendril of shadow snakes across the ground and blows her weapon just out of reach. She can no longer stop herself sobbing, not as the weight upon her leg doubles. With one last tug, she snatches her sword up by her fingertips, right as a man falls right on top of her.

Winded and dizzy from pain, she cannot see for a moment. Struggling, she dislodges the corpse from atop her and searches for her saviour. Beside her, Mor is stood, hobbled on one foot, a dagger in her hands. She glances only briefly at the queen, before snarling and cutting at those still surrounding them, who now number only three.

Where fire once purged the courtyard in light and heat, now the fabric of night itself tears the world asunder. Bodies simply burst, as if they were crimson bubbles, leaving only dust and droplets of blood blown by the wind. Others stumble about, blind, and fall on one anothers’ swords. The leeches implode with a gruesome pop.

Above her, the sky is the blue-black of her bruises, the stars brighter than she has ever seen them before. Then a hand appears before her face. “Need a hand there, your majesty?” Morrigan asks. The courtyard is deserted. All their men have either retreated, or fallen. Bodies of the enemies are piled two or three high.

Andromache accepts the offered assistance, and allows herself to be pulled to her feet. Shots of light still bloom in the sky, but they are become less and less frequent. She surveys the destruction around them.

“We are trying to overthrow gods.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> az is such a mary sue i love it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: this will probably be the goriest chapter for a while, so if I tell you Liu gets a mini perspective, you can hopefully work out if you're in the mood for that or not. You can probably skip his bit if that's not your cup of tea.

**Az**

 

“So… do you have to pull some special magical pose to activate it or-?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Whatever it is you shadowsingers do. You’d better hurry up and do your moves. I’d say they moved at least half the troops from the mine, and that’s thrice our combined numbers. If there was ever a time we could use an ancient power, stuff of legends and myth, supposedly the art of only the oldest and wisest of faes, it’s now.”

Crouched atop a boulder, Azriel glances back at the man loitering behind him. Whatever lunacy had compelled him to humor Liu with conversation, witnessing the impossible army marching on the palace was enough to dispel it. Right now, he would really appreciate some alone time. Especially when the alternative is _him_.

“I’m not going to do anything,” he says quietly, though they are far out of earshot of the troops. While he may be no Cassian, he has always possessed a knack for observation, and he quickly commits to memory the attackers’ formation, numbers, weaponry, mounts, armor and so forth. Once he’s satisfied, he stands, and leaps down from the rock edge, landing catlike, perfectly poised on his toes.

Before he can even blink, however, Liu is at his side. “What do you mean you’re not going to do anything? What was the point of coming here if you’re just going to do sweet flips and jump off rocks?” Where he has only known the man to be either arrogant or predatory, Az is now faced with a Liu who looks uncannily expectant. Very Graves-esque. Which, though it shouldn’t be, is far, far worse.

“We’ve assessed the enemy in full. Know the extent of what we are dealing with. Are well aware of their unguarded rear.” Cauldron, he sounds like Cassian. Maybe hanging out with that bastard really did rub off on him. “Now we return to the others, and pass on the information. Graves can use it when he leads them to battle.”

Liu is staring at him like he’s gone mad, though he thinks Cass would be rather proud. He’s never shown any interest in battle strategy before, but apparently listening to Cassian debate details with himself like a crazy person has some benefits aside from warding off all potential outside socialisation.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Liu says in deadpan, staring at him with a kind of exasperated loathing Az is not sure he’s earned. “We came out here to play scouts? You, the _commanding officer_ , are just going to be a lookout? They’re on top of a fucking hill. They could have seen pretty much everything we can just by looking down.”

“And if they hadn’t spotted something crucial, what then?” Az snaps back icily. “We just ignore proper preparation because we’re ‘too important’?”

Again, he thinks he’s being unusually articulate, yet Liu just throws his arms up in despair. “You think preparation can stop us all from _dying?_ This situation is fucked. You know no one can winnow in Hyperion’s light zones. Either we win, or we die. There is no middle ground.”

“Are you quoting something?”

“Maybe, but that’s not the point,” Liu quips, narrowing his eyes at him. “Why won’t you do anything? I thought you were supposed to be some great killer? The Hero of Lington Manor, or whatever swanky title Graves wanks off to at night.”

“If you want to go charging at a thousands strong army by yourself, be my guest,” Az says flatly, looking about to work out where they are in relation to the camp.

“Talented I may be, but I’m no shadowsinger.” Liu grabs him, yanking him back by the wrist and for a second Az thinks he’s lost it, is sure a black line flickered across the private’s throat. “You could actually make a difference to those numbers.”

“Stop using that word,” Az says, with such hatred in his voice that Liu actually deliberates for a second. But then he just tightens his grip.

“What? You still pretending you’re just another ‘one of the guys’? I’ve seen-”

“You don’t know what you’ve seen,” Az growls back, turning from his retreat and instead closing in on Liu, forcing him backwards as he steps towards him. “You understand nothing about me. All this bullshit talk about ‘like calls to like’. You just think you can set me off and watch me go for your amusement. Well I’m afraid I actually care about people, so you can just-”

Azriel has not been slapped in a long time, and it is not an experience he has missed. His father used to love it. It wasn’t violence if it was just a punishing slap; all healthy, well-rounded children received them. Slapping a child would make them strong. “Shut up, you _child_ ,” Liu seethes, one hand threatening to slap him again, the other holding him by the throat. “Don’t whine to me about how misunderstood you are. And don’t you dare think you can judge me after a month of sulking around, looking pathetic and pitiful. This is a war, you fucking bat-brained idiot. And we are all going to die unless all of us do whatever we can to fucking kill those Eos* bastards.”

Releasing his throat, Liu backs up a step, but no further. For once, Azriel is _trying_ to listen to him, desperately trying to claw back his conscious to focus on what is really happening. Even an irate asshole is preferably to the sounds flooding his brain, the sights he does not see but _feels_ as if they have been printed on his skin for all eternity. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe.

“Whatever you need to do your shadowsinger stuff, I will help you. And if there are people to kill, I will kill them. But I need _you_ to stop trying to escape back to a mob that wants to kill you, and thus our probable only chance of surviving this.” Liu is right there, right up in his face looking as furious as the day they met, but he barely sees him. There’s just so much _noise_ in his head. It’s twisting his lungs inside out and snapping his bones, he can feel it seeping to the surface of his skin and building, ready to-

“I don’t know how to,” he gasps, forcing speech through. Speech is good, speech is him, it is him in reality, right here, where he really is. He is not anywhere else, he is not back there, he is not being slammed against those same four walls again. His words come out as a roar, in the kind of voice he was raised on. Mother, it’s happening again.

No matter how many times he tells himself ‘no’, it does not stop. It does not even slow. The black static in his chest is growing darker. “Yes, you do,” Liu shouts back, shoving him in frustration. It catches him off guard, his body no longer his own to balance. “You know exactly what to do, if you would just-”

Liu does not finish as shadows wrap around his neck. Horrified, Azriel tries to see what is real but his mind is telling him it’s his brother before him, his throat slowly purpling as all air is cut off by darkness made tangible. In near tears, he begs with it to stop but the choke does not loosen.

“This guy bothering you, Az?”

Looking up from the hands he has buried his face in, Azriel finds a man suddenly propped up against his shoulder. “I thought you only did the secret sexy shadow choke hold with me,” said man says with a disgruntled pout to the other new arrival.

“What can I say? It’s a beautiful way to make an entrance,” says Rhysand, the future High Lord of the Night Court, and exactly the person he wants to see right now.

 

* * *

 

“How did you know to come?” Azriel asks Cassian, when Liu has been released and sort of shoved in the metaphorical ‘time out’ corner.

“Would you believe me if I told you I can sense when you’re in trouble through our deep and tender bond?” Cass asks, draping his arm across Az’s shoulder and pulling him close.

“No.”

“Thesan sent us a warning. His scouts spotted movement from his father and he suggested we might want to check on things. When we found we couldn’t winnow in, we guessed something might be up.” Azriel says nothing, but shoots Rhysand a ‘thank you’ look for actually giving him an answer.

“I sensed it,” Cass whispers in his ear, a hand resting atop where he claims he has a heart, “in here.”

“Whilst this is all delightfully homoerotic,” Liu drawls from behind them, his disdainful expression suggesting he is thoroughly unimpressed by Cassian’s claims. “Can we please focus on the massacre at hand?”

“Who’s this asshole?” Cass asks without any attempt at whispering.

“Private Liu.” It is Rhysand who answers, and even steps over to the man and offers his hand. To Azriel’s astonishment, Liu actually shakes it, completely free of snarky remarks. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Charming as you always are, Rhysand,” Liu says dryly. “I would actually like to go and stop the people we’re supposed to protect from being slaughtered.”

“But of course.” Az is more than used to witnessing Rhys’s unbridled charm whenever he’s around good company, or there’s something he wants, but he has no idea whatsoever as to why he is turning his wiles and ways on _Liu_. “It’ll be just like our first date.”

“If I kill more of these wankers than you, you’re telling me that story free of charge,” Cassian says, releasing Az to clap Rhysand on the back. “Now. Az, are you-” He shakes his head. “Okay. You go back and let the camp know we’re on things this end. Backup might be appreciated, given how I am still pretty fucking hungover.” He glances over at Rhys. “Anything else, my darling?”

“Dive straight in with no resources or support whatsoever?” Rhys summarises. “Couldn’t think of a better plan if I tried.”

“Wait, why isn’t Azriel coming with us?” Liu demands, surprisingly unaffected by all the charismatic smiling and jovial banter. It provides further proof towards Az’s theory that he is dead inside.

“He’s show us up,” Cass answers, a little too casually. They share a look, before he nods. “See you at the end, I guess.”

“Tell Sergeant Graves you’re to have full authority, no questions asked. My orders,” Rhys says.

This is what Azriel has missed. Being told what to do, where to go, how to act. It is infinitely simpler than trying to manage himself. With a brief glance in Liu’s direction - who seems to be caught between suspicion over his leaving, and bloodlust for the promised battle - he bids them goodbye with a simple nod, and takes to the sky.

* * *

 

 

**Jun**

 

They meet Dawn’s army in shadows.

Already eclipsing his father, despite not yet having inherited the title and power of the High Lordship, Rhys has only to stretch an arm out before them and night descends around them, which suits Jun just fine; He is well-accustomed to operating in the dark.

“Try not to get killed, date-boy,” The large bat hisses from beside him. He can hear the smirk in his voice. And worse, he talks nearly as much as Capne. Plus, he really isn’t his type.

“Shall we spar, once we’re finished here?” He asks, feigning his best light, innocent tone. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Captain. It would be a privilege to learn from you.”

“Don’t take the bait, Cass,” Rhys whispers from ahead, leading their stealthy crouching sprint for the palace grounds.

“But ego stroking is my favourite.” Suddenly the overgrown one is far too close for Jun’s liking. “I wholeheartedly accept.”

Muttering to himself up ahead, Rhys slips through the gardens once planted and tended by fae, now wild and sprawling. They provide good cover from the baffled army, however, who they can hear demanding to know why it has suddenly fallen dark again. This one small change has thrown them completely; Jun smirks. That’s what you get for only training in the light, you arrogant pricks. Never thought anyone could best you even that much.

In the shadows, Rhys holds up a hand. He was kind enough to inform Jun of Illyrian battlefield gestures last time their paths crossed, so he knows what to do when Rhys signs a ‘v’ with his second and third finger, and double taps it in the air.

The relentless back and forth has vanished. Jun, who is trained to hear these things, can barely even detect their breathing. He grins. How he has missed working with professionals.

Taking the right whilst Cassian swoops to the left, the pair of them progress to crouch but a metre from the backline of troops, squatted down in the bushes. Behind them, Rhysand has straightened to his full height, shoulders back, ears pricked up, and his eyes are closed. His subordinates wait. He exhales.

And they descend upon the masses.

No book or campire tale or tavern boasting has ever been able to do this experience justice for Jun. The only thing he has found that comes close to conveying what it feels like is the swell of an orchestra in a decadent, high-ceilinged hall, when no one is chit-chatting and a thunderstorm for the centuries is crashing down outside. Only that exact moment, when the symphony swells to peak of its crescendo, has anything come close to describing what it feels like to unleash himself.

Where by day he must walk and slouch and lean to pass as normal, here, his body is no longer a cage. It is nothing less than an instinctual extension of his mind, fluid like water. He has never had a talent for showy magic, no flashes or bangs or pops from him, but the one language he speaks well is his body’s. With permission that there will be no holding back, the lighting stapled beneath his skin speeds up, and with it, every cell within him follows suit.

And it feels _so good_. Sex doesn’t match this. Good food, a warm bed, nothing. He is barely even conscious by this point of what he is doing. His limbs move by their own rule, the twin blades he wields the new tip of where his arm ends. Time has at once both slowed and quickened, to him everyone else stays stuck in a slow-motion bubble, whilst his mind is so euphoric it is as simple as daydreaming.

He slices through the throat of one body. Turns on his heel, extends and sweeps an upcut that cleaves the next in twain. Using the sinking corpse as a springboard, he opens the guts of two others as he launches, twists, and brings his blade full circle, scouring two throats, one stomach, and just grazing another’s thigh. He is quick to remedy _that_ situation, tsking at his mistake as he launches once more, and drives a knife through their chest.

It is the most elegant dance ever created, and each time it is new and unique and wonderful. The rhiceratopses certainly make for some delightful deviations from the norm, though he could do without the bettlehounds, foul, irksome pests that they are.

The area around him cleared, he pauses for a moment to check on the others; This war would go nowhere without the influence of the Night Court, and that requires the heir on their side to be kicking and alive. Not to mention he hates the wasting of pretty faces.

He knew he has no basis for worry. Like some kind of mythical king, Rhysand stands there, night and starlight swirling around him, as he blends magic and physical might into a perfect harmony. Those attempting to use long-range weapons against him merely dissipate into mist, whilst the fools who dare get close are gouged by his beast talons. It’s a crude fighting style, one Jun has a few pointers in, but he can’t deny the prince that it works.

Less pleasingly, he has to admit that the boulder bat is not exactly failing. The huge muscles of his shoulders and back certainly seem to be helping as he literally rips half of his opponents in two. His swordwork might even rival his own, though Jun never claimed to favour the broadsword. It looks like their promised sparring match might actually be fun beyond the base realm of sadism.

But Jun is not here for sightseeing, even if they do look divine in their rather kinky leather outfits (he has always wondered if Illyrians chose it on purpose, but that’s neither here nor there). It is an awful omen that such a line of thinking leads him back to still questioning what the actual fuck is up with Azriel and his mysterious, stroppy reluctance. He might be a nuisance, but he is a rather aesthetic nuisance.

Interrupted mid-appreciation of the male anatomy, Jun nearly takes a horn to the head as a rhiceratops charges him. He responds just in time to grab on, yanking himself up off of the ground to mount the beast by its gnarly head.

Deeply disgruntled to have a freeloader hitching rides, it shakes about with no regard for its rider, who falls from the saddle in a matter of seconds.

And this is what people call an opportunity.

“Fuck yes,” Jun breathes, gripping on for dear life and grinning. “I have always wanted to do this.”

Grappling over the protesting beast’s face, he nips up to the saddle and hauls himself in, keeping a tight grip to avoid the fate of his predecessor. A sharp kick to the animal’s side, and it shoots off like a bullet, charging in alarm. The reigns are a little tricky to get a hold of, but once he’s gotten the gist, it’s easy enough to steer the thing clear of bowling into Rhysand.

“You bought me a pony?” Rhysand mocks, though it loses some of its bravado as he grunts through a particularly rough punch to the solar plexus.  

“Only the finest for you, my love!” Jun shouts back, cackling. Mother, he hasn’t had this much fun in years.

“I’m feeling unloved over here!” Protests Cassian, as he pries his battleaxe from the neck he just nearly snapped clean in half with it.

“Poor baby,” Jun cooes, just as the palace wall explodes.

“Sounds like our song,” Rhys shouts, and after tossing his opponent to the ground, he runs over and sweeps himself up onto the back of the saddle.

“Mush mush,” adds Cassian, who is already seated himself with his legs locked around their noble steed’s largest horn. Never one to refuse the chance to anger an enormous, pissed off animal into storming into thick of the enemy’s numbers, Jun gives the reigns a sharp crack, and they’re away.

True, they take out an extra bit of wall with some dodgy aiming, and Cassian nearly loses a leg, but they breech the Palace and by extension, reach the epicenter of the fighting. The epicenter, they discover, consists of two women, one buck-ass naked, the other the rebel queen. Jun’s encountered stranger.

“Liu,” Rhys shouts as he dismounts from the stunned, collapsing beast. “You-”

“Sorry princeling, I don’t do orders,” Jun chimes in cheerfully, before he too leaps off and dives head first into the fray. It was a little petulant, he acknowledges that, but it was a rather snappy one-liner.

Within the contained space, it is much easier to eliminate those around them in a progressive manner. Rhysand’s Night magic proves utterly fatal here, each lock suffocated fae in larger and larger clusters. From the front entrance, Jun can spot Capne and Vecuvia spearing in from the other side, he giving the orders, whilst she ensures they are followed. Jun can’t help but grin at that. He knew he had it in him.

 

* * *

*Eos: A term native to the Dawn Court, used to refer to those High Fae who are of the upper classes (Typically those resident within the Captial, or mass-scale slave business owners). Is generally used as a derogatory term. 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think we can all agree that Mor should accept Andromache's new job offer.  
> p.s. apologies if this is a crock of shit. I'm sick *cough cough* (please don't 'boo, you whore' me)

**Mor**

 

Beyond the palace walls, Hyperion’s army calls for retreat.

Never before has Mor seen so many different kinds of people come together; Stars and darkness of light swirl amongst membranous and feathered wings, whilst others wield light itself, or now that they have emerged from the dungeons, swords and bows and blades of every history. She’d always assumed such an amalgamation of differences would be ineffective chaos. Yet instead of disintegrating before the enemy, each unique style exploited its unique strengths and soon Hyperion’s troops had no clue where to focus their defence, attacked on all sides by all kinds.

Sadly, she did not get to be a part of the finishing blows. Mor stands hobbled by a pillar, one arm slung around her royal highness’s shoulder. Whilst fighting for her life was kind enough to distract her, it is now more than a little difficult to _not_ be self-conscious of her being naked. Of course Hyperion, the annoying douchebag to end all douchebags, would attack whilst she was trying to have a nice, relaxing bath. Anything to distract from how stressed she was.

It is not so much that she cares what the humans think, and it’s nothing Cass or Rhys hasn’t seen before. The problem is her majesty. With how regal and graceful she is, little else could possibly be as humiliating as having her sweaty, nude body pressed against her. All she can do is stare determinedly at the floor and ignore the fact that she can feel how crimson her cheeks are. Please let Andromache get concussion and forget the whole ordeal. _Please Cauldron, please_.

“So it’s guns out tits out season, huh?” A familiar voice teases as she spots Cassian and his two companions clambering over the rubble of the fallen wall. Mortified as she is, at least _his_ teasing is something she delights in battling.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Cass,” she drawls, trying to stretch in apathetic laziness, but she winces. She’d heard boneleeches were worse than the weaver herself, but _Mother_ , they weren’t kidding. Putting even a modicum of weight on her right leg brings hot stinging tears to her eyes.

Rushing over, Cass grabs her other shoulder and helps support her up, Andromache balancing her on the other side. “Don’t tell me you let one of those _things_ get on you?” When Mor nods, he puts a good foot of distance between their bodies, shivering and mock gagging. “Urgh. They’re nearly as bad as Helion’s sandspiders.”

“Don’t,” Mor warns him, feeling ill at just the idea of it. “Thank the Cauldron that man is on our side.”

“Why am I not surprised to find you fondling a naked women the second battle ends?” An unknown voice drawls. Mor glances up, spotting Rhys as she suspected, and then another, slighter man devoid of wings.

“What can I say? I’m efficient,” Cassian says with a grin, which Mor swiftly wipes off by elbowing him in the stomach.

“Your highness,” the unknown man says with a respectful nodd to the queen, an action Mor is surprised to see she returns.

“Jun. Why am I not surprised to see you with these two ruffians?” Andromache responds with a sly smile, and a pointed look over at the two Illyrians. “I believe I have you two to thank for the fact that I’m still breathing.”

“We had a little help from a good friend of mine,” Rhys answers with a grin. “Though Helion does send his apologies that he couldn’t be here today. The Fisher King has been keeping him a bit busy lately.”

“Thank you, to all of you,” the queen says, sounding as noble and perfect as usual, despite the head injury. Mor can’t help but look at her with a degree of awe. Were she in her position, she’d be telling everyone to shut up and let her go lie down and eat something. For that matter, she is starving. “Am I correct to say I saw Peregryns out there?”

“You are,” Rhys says. “Thesan finally managed to convince them to join. After they heard what happened to the slaves in the mine, they-”

“What?” Andromache and Mor interrupt in unison. Mor is certain she’s going to vomit, and this time, it has nothing to do with her leg.  

Realising they clearly have not been informed of something, Rhys steps closer. With Cass supporting Mor, he moves closer and takes Andromache’s hands in his own. “I’m sorry your highness. They were executed this morning.”

“Why?” She demands, not so stoic now as her voice and eyes turn to the blackest of ice. “He needed them, or so he claimed.” When he does not answer, she turns her face aside, clamping down on her lower lip. It breaks Mor’s heart to see the damp there shining on her eyes.

With sympathetic eyes, Rhys gives her a soft pat on her shoulder before releasing his hold. “You require medical attention, your majesty. You too, Mor.”

“Not surprisingly, considering how you fended off an entire army by yourself for however long,” Cass interjects, looking so proud Mor thinks he mighty care more about that than his own customary kill ‘score’. He gives her a tight squeeze. “As to be expected of my vanquisher.” She tries to give him a pointed look to say that now really isn’t the time, but he just smiles back, and she realises he is well aware of what he’s doing. Stupid Cassian, always playing dumb. She really wishes he wouldn’t do that, because half the time, she thinks he believes it.

“Will you be alright to manage things here?” The queen asks, defeat in all her aspects, from her tone to her body language. Nevermind that they just defeated Hyperion’s first attack; she is hung up over those five-hundred. And though she didn’t think she cared earlier, Mor finds herself feeling for them through her. How one queen can afford to feel so strongly for everyone, she doesn’t know, but she has never seen her highness fail to feel absolute compassion for all. Yet she never seems weak in her kindness.

For a moment, Mor catches herself thinking that she wishes she could go back to being like that. But as always, she remembers what it brought her, and extinguishes the flame.

“I’ll send a healer to your chambers,” Rhys says gently. “Cass, help them over would you?”

“But of course,” he says with a gracious bow, giving the other one, Jun was it, a two fingered wave before escorting them off. “And my I say your highness, you are looking as radiant as ever.”

Andromache chuckles darkly. “I don’t feel it. It don’t feel it one bit.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Morrigan,” Andromache says for the third time, her voice stern, though Mor can see she’s holding back a smirk. “For the last time, come sit with me.”

“I’m your Royal Advisor,” she protests once more. The bed does look awful comfy, and her leg is killing her, but she’s in the presence of royalty. Sirius would _murder_ her if he caught her slobbing about in her majesty’s chambers, and though she is loathe to admit it, she is a tiny bit scared of that man. “Not some- some sleepover buddy.”

“Lady Morrigan, I order you to sit your ass down next to me and stop me freezing to death. If you refuse, I shall have you charged and tried for high treason. Are we quite clear?”

Three seconds later, Mor is awkwardly snuggled up next to her royal highness, and though she can’t quite believe it, hugging her. The thing is, the queen really was shaking like a leaf, and when their skin brushes, she is colder and clammier than any draugr* she has ever had the displeasure of touching. She can’t say what Sirius would do to her if she let the Queen freeze to death on her watch, but she can imagine it wouldn't be pretty.

“Thank goodness,” Andromache sighs. “I thought I was going to have to drag you over here myself.”

“If you had just let the healer tend to you, we-”

“Others need it more than me. If we can prevent any further deaths, that is the priority. I will be perfectly fine.” Even as she speaks, Mor can see how sallow her skin has become, can feel how shallow her breathing is as they touch.

“You’re even worse than Rhysand.”

The queen chuckles hoarsely, doing nothing to ease Mor’s worry. For herself, she knows her bone can be repaired and regrown, though she’s heard it’s hardly an enjoyable process. At least she finally has some clothing on, her majesty having leant her a gorgeously silken dress wrap that ties at the waist. She hasn’t worn anything thing like this since - like everything else she now avoids - her exile.

They fall quiet for a while, Andromache curling up into her to savour her warmth. Mor just prays to the Mother that no one walks in with them like this. Not that she’s doing anything untoward, she tells herself. No sir.

Trying to calm her breathing, she looks down at the dozing queen, who rests with her eyes closed, her armour discarded. Like this, she looks less like some untouchable legend, more real. Where she lies against her, Mor can feel the texture of her skin, smooth in some places, but always so calloused on her hands. Cautiously, she takes one in her own, and runs her thumb over the queen’s fingers, marvelling at how rough the tips are, speaking of a lifetime of work.

And then she realises how inappropriate what she is doing is.

Flushing hot, she drops the queen hands and goes rigid. She just- she is just being a hot water bottle. Nothing more. She certainly has no right to go _stroking_ the queen like a cat, or like a lov- Nope. She shuts that thought down at once.

Yet now that it has rooted in her mind, she can’t escape it. Her nose is tickled by the queen’s thick hair, filled with the soft scent of her skin that Mor has previously only caught glimpses of. It is not her fault her majesty smells so good, like buttery sunshine and something floral that she thinks might be jasmine.

“I’m not crushing you too much, am I?” Andromache asks through a yawn.

“Not at all, your highness,” Mor says too fast, jolted out of thinking far, far too deeply about how her queen smells. Like she has any right to know what she smells like. Like she has any right to be this close to someone this important, this awe-striking.

“Good,” the queen mumbles. “You make an excellent pillow. Don’t fancy a job change, do you?”

Normally Mor would have a snappy comeback for that. Unfortunately, her brain goes straight to the gutter. The idea of lounging about in the queen bed all day, waiting for her to come back to snuggle up against her again is- “You’re so warm.” Yes. She definitely is, feeling far too hot at the collar considering how she’s in a thin little slip of a gown. Mother forgive her, she can feel herself stirring in places that should not be stirring.

“You know,” Andromache says, her breath tickling the skin of her chest, “in the spirit of telling the truth, I was in the middle of writing a letter when Hyperion stuck.”

“How scandalous.” It is easy to feign shock when you are having serious heart palpitations.

“I was going to ask Rhysand to replace you.”

Mor… doesn’t know what to say. In a way she should have expected it from how she’d acted at the council meeting, but she’d thought the queen had pardoned her rudeness. “Not for how you were with Sirius,” Andromache tells her, apparently seeing her internal dialogue written plainly on her face. “I just… I didn’t think you could fight for us against our injustices when you were still mending from yours.

“I’m not apologising for making that decision. Based on my beliefs at the time, it was the one I had to make. But I am deeply sorry for underestimating you, and thinking of you as just a victim. I’ve seen a lot of people broken by that kind of treatment, and too many never found a way to keep going. The last thing I wanted to do was make that even harder for you. But,” she gives a small, half-shy kind of smile that leaves Mor’s throat thick and useless, her chest a mess, “you are clearly far stronger than I gave you credit for. And for that, I apologise.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Mor says to her hands, fumbling with them in her lap, her arm withdrawn from around her highness. Instead, she has her arm around Mor, her thumb rubbing circles on her back that seem to be working more witchcraft on her than fae has ever done. She hasn’t been able to be honest like this with anyone since her father showed her what honesty will get you.  “It’s all I can do to just fight. To be stronger and faster and sharper than everyone else. Yet even though I can do all of this killing, I feel weaker than ever. I don’t-”

She can’t finish. Tears clog her eyes and throat. Cauldron, she is crying into her majesty’s shoulder like an infant. And once the floodgates are opened, they cannot be closed. Everything pours out of her, the grief she has not allowed herself to feel since she lost everything spilling out onto the pillows. Years of not knowing how she can do it right this time, with no clue how to be better, to prevent it from ever happening again except to go against everything she has ever been. And yet with each piece of herself that she buries, she’s only felt emptier. She might be able to single-handedly combat an army, but it feels as if one wrong word could shatter her entirely. And it hurts. It really, really hurts.

Andromache does not complain nor scold her. Instead she envelopes her in her arms, pulling her safer into her chest, and rocks her. She should be embarrassed, but all she can do is cry and feel everything she has been shutting out for so long. Her entire body aches, not with the brutality of battle, but with the insidious drain of feeling so lost for so many years. She just wants to go home, but she’s not sure she has one.

“It’s okay,” Andromache says into her hair, stroking it with one hand. “Just let it all out.” In the back of her head, Mor thinks she’s really going to regret that statement, because it feels like ‘all’ is an endless pit with no end, a void in her chest that can be emptied forever. However, after she knows not how long, her sobbing stifles to meek hiccups, her eyes sore but drying.

“I’m so proud of you,” the queen mumbles. It should feel patronising, but Mor’s chest is doing weird flips and she has to fight against the urge to curl up closer. “That was the bravest thing I’ve seen you do. And that’s including your fireball storming into the courtyard.”

“I do not take kindly to being interrupted in the bath,” Mor says with a wan smile, her voice wrecked from crying. She sniffles, and tries not to feel as pathetic as she does. “Sorry for… yeah.”

“Nonsense,” Andromache says with the kindest smile. “You’ve saved my life gods know how many times tonight. I think I can spare a shoulder for some long overdue venting.”

“I’ve completely ruined your dress.”

“It can be replaced. People can’t.”

Groaning, Mor makes herself sit up and paws at her face in an attempt to make her whole breakdown a little less obvious. “Please never tell Sirius.”

“Only if you promise not to try and throttle him again,” Andromache replies with a sly smile that wholly contradicts how sweet she’s just been. “Else I’ll have to give him some material to level the playing ground.”

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

 

When they have both been patched up, Mor still hasn’t left. She tries to think that it is them ‘just being girls’, but her heart is still all aflutter, the traitor.

They lie side by side facing one another under the covers, just visible by the light of dawn shining through the sheets. In normal circumstances, Mor would _never, ever_ subject her heart to this kind of cruelty. However, the very nice physician gave her some even nicer drugs, and she feels fantastic, thank you very much. Positively stellar.

Andromache giggles beside her like a little girl. She got an even stronger dosage than Mor - apparently there were fractures in her skull, and mending those would have been fatally painful were it not for the drugs. “Fae magic is good,” Andromache had said. “But human drugs are better.”

“Tell me a story,” she whispers, linking their hands together between them.

“What kind of story?” Mor waggles her eyebrows in suggestive manner, hopefully invisble in the halflight.

“Mmm. An exciting one.”

If Mor has anything in life, it is exciting stories. Thus, she tells the queen all about the time she’d accidentally slept in the Weaver’s bed whilst training in The Middle and mistaken her cottage for some handy dandy abandoned shelter. Being awoken by a death goddess set on devouring her was probably the worst wake up call ever. And she never gets bored of relaying the story of when she and Cassian broke into their prince’s quarters and cut the crotches and nipples out of all of his clothes whilst he’d been sleeping. That one had been particularly fun.

She regales her with stories of stalking frenzied lesser fae through the Illyrian mountains, of fighting with the other general’s over her, a _girl_ , being allowed to train, as if she were a child. Though she has only been there for a relatively short time, she has a tale for every aspect of the Illyrian camp, from the incident with Cassian and the horse in the stables, to the thing they must never, ever speak of involving Azriel and a tree. It does not do to dwell on it.

“What about where you grew up?” Andromache asks. “I’ve heard so much about the Hewn City. It’s nice to know there are places even fae fear. But I mean, it can’t really be all that bad. A place can’t _make_ people evil.”

“If anywhere could, it’s there.” Mor is glad for the hand playing with her hair, for just thinking about her old home is too much when she’s on medicinals this strong. “There’s something about about this place. I don’t know what it is. It’s like… almost a sickness. Or like a music you can’t hear. Something about it just brings the worst out in everyone. I was awful back then, if I stayed there too long. Summering with Rhysand was the only thing that kept me sane.”

Thankfully, Andromache pries no further. She seems occupied with getting the bristles on Mor’s scalp all facing the same way. “What about you?” Mor asks, because the silence risks her doing something stupid, which even whilst medicated she knows is a bad idea. “You must have hundreds of stories.” She grins. “What with being so old and all.”

She shrieks in laughter as Andromache pounces on her and starts tickling her, the covers slipping of them as she keeps her pinned between her legs. “Old, am I? Could an old person do _this_?” ‘This’ seems to be devolving Mor into nothing more than a cackling mess, begging for mercy as she fights to free herself. Even tougher is the fight to ignore that her royal highness has her caged by her crotch.

Finding it within herself to have compassion, she slides off of her prey and slumps back into the pillows. “I don’t know. I don’t think I have many that are exciting. Everything I’ve done has taken so _long_. Most of my life has just been waiting. Doing little things.” She thinks for a moment, before saying casually, “I did once sleep with Hyperion’s wife though.”

Two minutes later, once Mor has stopped yelling ‘WHAT?!’, she is kind enough to elaborate. “Well, I mean I could hardly have said no given her owning me and everything, but I uh. I can’t say I protested, particularly. I _may_ even have started it, but that’s irrelevant.”

“You- You banged. Hyperion’s. Wife.” Each one of those words deserves their own moment in the sun. Mor is flabbergasted. She is done. No story can ever top that one.

“She’s not as great as all the songs and rumours and stories say. It was a bit disappointing, actually, to discover that the woman everyone dreams of sleeping with is mediocre at best in the bedroom. And considering she’s had two-thousand years to practice, you’d think she’d have it locked in by now.”

Kneeling on the bed, Mor wonders if she died during the battle, and is not stuck in some eternal dreamscape. “I cannot believe I am listening to you trashtalk the Golden Lady herself, let alone her sex moves.”

“Liliana sucks at oral too.”

Stuck in hysterics, Mor laughs so hard she is crying, pretty sure it has nothing to do with the drugs. By the time Andromache is done dropping casual truth bombs on her, her stomach feels like she’s been doing a week straight of crunches, and she doesn’t remember what having oxygen feels like. “You really are the queen,” Mor says with a sigh, staring at the ceiling with a big goofy grin on her face. Part of it may have something to do with the fact that Andromache felt totally comfortable dropping that she slept with women into everyday conversation, but shh. Her royal highness would never know.

“What will I never know?” Andromache asks. Shit. Mor was thinking aloud.

“How… How big of a crush I’ve had on Liliana since I was like, right.” Fuck, she really needs to work on her improvisation skills. That was not something she had ever planned on confessing too.

“I’m sorry to break your childhood dreams. Although I will say she is lovely. It’s a shame that Hyperion is keeping her from Thesan. Though, if you ask me, she’s probably playing him from the inside. Most cunning woman I have ever met.” Lying down beside her, she taps her fingers in her breastbone before adding, “Apparently he’s shit in bed.”

“That is not a mental image I needed, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So,” Mor says, starting to piece together basic logic through the haze of the drugs and laughter, “You’re from Dawn?”

“Well, I was born in Summer. Liliana chose me when she was visiting to be wet nurse to her firstborn son. When he died in labour, however, she found a new use for me.”

“What, warming her bed? I thought-”

“No, no. She despises that kind of slavery most of all. I mentioned once to her my love of the harp - young Tarquin used to play it constantly - and so she purchased one. Told Hyperion she had a mind to play it, but it was me she asked to sit with it. I was lucky enough to find I had a talent for it.”

“You were a musician,” Mor breathed with a longing sigh. She has never been able to play anything, though her mother used to force her through piano drills and tutors morning and evening for years. “How romantic.”

“It was,” Andromache agrees, turning her head to look over at her. “I lived a blessed life. I lived amongst the fae nobility, travelled all of Prythian to play for every ball - Liliana was delighted with how many more invitations she received once I became known. The only place she ever refused was Hewn. Not that they ever asked me. I had a reputation for being a little too big for my boots, given how I was but a lowly human.”

“No wonder you speak so much like those in court. Do you know Thesan, then?”

“Oh do I know Thesan.” Andromache grins wickedly, and though it crinkles her face further, Mor has never seen her look so young and playful. “I watched him grow up. He’s the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had. I cared for him, whilst Maern protected him. It was almost like a family, for a while.”

“Maren?”

“Peregryn. You’ll meet him so enough, I’m sure.”

Rolling onto her side, Mor looks at the woman before her. Though she is so much younger, her life somehow seems so much richer, so connected and meaningful. “Few of us are as lucky as I am, though,” Andromache sighs, averting her gaze. “Most of the time, I don’t feel like I have a right to lead them, let alone the ability. Like a fae in human’s clothing, almost.” She shakes her head. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not.” Mor joins their hands once more, lacing their fingers together, and squeezes tight. “I think I understand. It’s like you’re this evil imposter, but no one else has realised it yet.”

“That is exactly it,” Andromache says, meeting her eyes. They are so close, so close Mor can feel the warmth of her breath playing across her nose. Then her majesty leans in.

Kissing Mor feathersoft upon her forehead, she says, “I’m sorry you know that.”

* * *

*draugr: A type of undead warrior, stolen from Skyrim.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, 99% of credit goes to Abookandacoffee for a) being awesome and b) making me want to write these two (because it's less awkward than writing 'Wild Winds of Beasts' but hopefully carries the same gratification??? I hope I pray idk we'll have to wait and see).


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